


Resonant Notes

by GobIin



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, First Season, M/M, Music Creation, Pre-Relationship, Undecided Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-16
Updated: 2016-09-26
Packaged: 2018-08-15 08:39:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 40,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8049643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GobIin/pseuds/GobIin
Summary: "It’s for his amusement.  He knows we're watching, and it’s fun for him to leave you reminders that he’s still out there."The Ripper's newest tableau has a melody all of its own.  And that sound may just be enough for Will Graham to follow it back to the composer.





	1. Fermata

**Author's Note:**

> Hello my lovelies! This is a story written with the absolutely incredible Thepastandthefuture (who can be found at http://thepastandthefuture.tumblr.com/).
> 
> I've chosen to keep it in roleplay format, with ellipses ( ... ) denoting character changes. This is mainly due to the fact that Thepastandthefuture's Hannibal is so brilliantly written that I don't want to edit any of it. 
> 
> Enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Will's appointment goes unexpected places.

**_Fermata: To hold a tone or rest held beyond the written value at the discretion of the performer._ **

 

There was a hint of—anticipation within the doctor as he sat at his office desk, glancing into his appointment book as though he didn’t know who would stand before his door in but a few minutes. As though he wasn’t aware of what they would speak about, during this session.

Hannibal knew what the last crime scene the other male had seen had looked like; of course Will wouldn’t bring pictures, would only describe if he wished to, but the psychiatrist would have a clear image of it in his mind nonetheless.

Bloody, taut strings cutting into flesh and holding motionless, heavy limbs. That was how they had found him.

The doctor had briefly known the man. The encounter had been more than enough for Hannibal to gain insight into the way the other held himself, how he behaved. What better purpose he could serve, than living this life.

He had taken the liver.

Jack and his wife would visit the next evening, coming over for dinner.

Exactly on time, Hannibal stood and crossed the room, unhurriedly even in his eagerness, to open the door for Will and welcome him inside.

 

…

 

Sometimes Jack came and called him out of his class.  Will would see him through the door, a darker figure in the shadows cast by the projector, and he would feel his heart sink into his guts.  Those were the good days, when Will had a chance to putt his brain on straight, and find some grounding in reality before he had to face it.

Today was not a good day.

Bleary eyed and exhausted, Will had surveyed the 5am crime scene; piano wire and blood in the greyish light of dawn.  He hadn’t needed to tell Jack that it was the Ripper.  They both knew.  

 _It’s for his amusement.  He knows we're watching, and it’s fun for him to leave you reminders that he’s still out there._ Jack had been so angry that Will kept the rest to himself.  And Will couldn’t get the glittering piano wire out of his head.  

Will’s hand shook as he knocked on the doctor’s office door.  Even the heavy frames of his glasses did little to hide the deep shadows under his eyes; purple like a bruise.  “Sorry I’m late…” He mumbled as he ducked through the door, shoulders slumped like he carried a millstone around his neck.

“Am I late?”  He asked a moment, later, squinting myopically over the top of his glasses, searching for the clock, “I was sure I was going to be..”

 

…

 

As soon as the door was opened, Will rushed into the office. His greeting was an apology – an unnecessary one at that – and the doctor didn’t even have to look at the other man to know that he was utterly exhausted. Hannibal couldn’t know exactly when the scene had been found; he supposed it had been rather early in the morning. Though, it meant that Will also hadn’t slept much before, and hadn’t managed to go back to bed after—

Which was understandable.

The doctor supposed that his nightmares would have haunted him, anyway, even if Jack had given him a break.

“Hello Will.” the older male inclined his head a tad. “Please come in.” He shut the door behind them, walking further into the room with him, though he didn’t sit down just yet.

“You’re perfectly on time.” He was. Had Hannibal opened the door to find that he wasn’t there, then he might have seen reason to try and find him once more. And not entirely because he had been looking forward to talking to the other.

“You didn’t have a very restful night, I’m afraid?” The older man looked concerned. Hannibal didn’t want to say that he looked quite terrible, awfully tired and tense, even more so than what the psychiatrist was used to, at this point. Though, Will would know that this was what he meant.

 

…

 

When Will was in a good mood, he tended to just take his seat; stretching out his legs and crossing one ankle over the other.  When he was stressed, he paced.  And when he was thoroughly pushed beyond his limits, he sank into his chair like a stone, fingers jabbed through his perpetually messy curls.

Today he migrated restlessly around the outside of the room, etching a path from door to window to chair, and back again.  Every loop bringing him a little closer to sitting down, like a whirlpool he couldn’t quite escape.  

“No.. new case…  Jack had me out there at the crack of dawn. Another Ripper murder, so you know he’s on the warpath”  

Will felt twitchy and pulled thin, like he had been stretched and beaten and dragged in far too many directions.  It was nothing out of the ordinary, but today it seemed just that little bit harder to cope with.  Medically Will knew the symptoms of sleep deprivation, but that didn’t give him much insight on how to avoid it.

“Thanks.. I appreciate that you didn’t just tell me I look like the walking dead.  That was Beverly’s assessment this morning.”  With a leaden sigh, he finally dropped into his chair, pressing his thumbs against his temples.

“There’s something different about this one, Dr. Lecter.. Something about music.  I mean, I told Jack that it was a goad.. but.. I don’t think it is.  The Ripper is trying to say something, and either I’m too fuzzy headed, or just missing the mark, too much to see it.”

 

…

 

After waiting another moment, Hannibal approached his desk, lightly leaning against it. The other man was unstrung, clearly, footsteps carrying him through the office again and again, while the doctor himself remained collected. He didn’t seem bothered by Will’s nervous energy, because he wasn’t.

“Jack wants you to catch him, now. He knows the Ripper will disappear again soon. Yet I do not appreciate how he handles this—issue. I’d have hoped he’d see that a human, no matter how talented and good, needs rest.”

It was no lie that the psychiatrist was concerned; it was all too obvious that the other was more than fatigued. However, Jack never seemed to care much about that. He wanted to use his best and most favorite tool as he saw fit. And Will wouldn’t say no to him. Hannibal was rather certain that he couldn’t convince the other man to allow himself time off, no matter what he did.

In this case, though, he might not try too hard, either.

Once Will came closer to his usual chair, the older male decided to take a seat, himself.

Beverly Katz was quite right, saying so, and the doctor’s face might imply his agreement even though he didn’t comment on the statement.

“Perhaps you are standing too close to the image to fully see it,” Hannibal offered, crossing one leg over the other. “Sometimes it is difficult to recognize something when you are too involved in it. That might be the case right now. What did you see, Will?”

 

…

 

Will sank into the chair with a thump, his knees giving out and his weight striking the fine milled leather like a sack of rocks.  And about as graceful.  Leaning forward, he pressed his fingers against his forehead, glasses sliding dangerously low on the slope of his nose; his eyes squeezed shut, until the after image of the fireplace stood out in relief against the inside of his eyelids.

“It’s.. No.  It’s not that I’m too close.  It’s that I don’t have the.. the.. I don’t have the right fingers for it.  Yes, he’s saying that he can _play_ people, doctor.. I get that.. But there’s something more in it that I’m missing.  The Ripper wouldn’t go to the trouble of leaving such a blunt statement.  He’d think it was.. Beneath him.  Inelegant.”

Shoving off his glasses, Will tucked them into his breast pocket, kneading his fingertips into his temples roughly.  As though he could fish out the missing pieces by touch alone, digging them out by force of will.

“I see… Ah, the body.”  He said after a long pause, opting to answer the question directly.  “Strung up with fine gauge wire.  Like piano wire, or some other instrument. Smooth wires, not like guitar strings.. Um.. There’s care here.  It’s not that he _can_ play this person.. It’s that he can play them into something more than they were to begin with.  Make them sound beautiful.”

Shuddering, Will leaned back, his shoulders slumping when released from the effort of holding himself upright.  

“He can touch them.  Linger over them.  Draw out the sounds he wants.”  His throat worked as he swallowed hard, drawing a breath that rasped in his lungs, “But I don’t know what that would feel like.  No musical background.”  Will finished, holding up his hands with a brittle laugh.

“I think I need to find someone who can explain what it feels like to make music.  Or, to try it myself.”  He added, sounding thoroughly uncertain about that last bit.

 

…

 

The doctor listened keenly, attentively. With Will, he never even contemplated being distracted during a session – conversation – though he couldn’t help but find special interest in their current discussion. It was fascinating, hearing the other male speak about the Ripper. Will had an insight that most people lacked; he understood those murderers well, almost as though he could have committed them himself. At times, he found himself testing Will, asking questions, attempting to lead him into a direction only to see if he would follow, or rightfully disagree. Hannibal was delighted; the other never disappointed. Instead, he continued exceeding the older man’s expectations.

He didn’t interrupt when Will fell silent, seconds ticking by, and the edges of his mouth twitched into a slight smile when he received not a vague, but a descriptive, honest answer. The other male shared the experience with him, just as the psychiatrist was sharing with him, as well.

Making them sound beautiful. Making them look beautiful. Turning something ugly and unneeded into something precious. Hannibal was aware that Will might be the only person who would name it that. It was a fragile, frightening but intriguing thing to know that someone was capable of understanding.

“A crime involving music, though different than the one Tobias Budge has committed.” The doctor began, half-questioningly even while making statements. “This wasn’t punishment for not striking the right note. It was about creating. Using and molding, perfecting.” He was pleased and looked the part. not in a smug, self-satisfied way, as he was simply content. “Well, I might be of help when it comes to this, if you’ll wish me to. I have written music ever since I was a young man. It’s an enjoyable pastime.”

Will wouldn’t have to try this alone; the psychiatrist would be by his side, as always.

“I’d be happy to explain and assist you, Will.”

 

…

 

Even a body that had become accustomed to functioning with very little sleep, would eventually hit the hard and unyielding wall of terminal strain.  Where it simply couldn’t continue on anymore, without suffering permanent injury.  Human beings were simply not designed to endure without rest, without a chance to recover, and biology snapped back with a vengeance when pushed too far outside its’ design.

Will hadn’t reached that point yet, but as his higher brain functioned stuttered; giving way to the  more vital autonomic nervous system; he could feel that he wasn’t far off.

Already the world blurred at the edges, and his hands felt unsteady and cold, stomach churning unpleasantly.  All reminding him that sleep, now, was becoming imperative.  Or else.

“Budge was a hack.”  Will said flatly, digging his thumbs into his temples.  His blue eyes were fixed on the carpet, drawn into the neat loops and whorls of the peaceful pattern.  “He had skill, but no ability to.. To _evolve_.  He was never going to surpass himself, or imagine something new.”

He hadn’t intended to sound so scathing, he realized after a beat.  

Shoulders drawn up tensely around his ears, Will raked his hands roughly through his curls, tugging on the springy coils and dragging them straight for a moment.  Blue eyes darted up for just a second– a glance so quick it was almost not worth mentioning– before he turned back to the rug.

“I don’t want to be in the way…”  He started to say, shaking his head slightly, “I’m sure you have better things to do than try and explain music to..”

Will trailed off.  What other option did he have?  The Ripper was obviously trying to tell him something, and Will’s brain just felt so sluggish and slow!  What if other people got hurt, just because he wasn’t on his game?

Pulling himself together, he managed a jerky nod, “But.. If it’s no trouble.. I’d really appreciate it.  I’m lost, Dr. Lecter.. It’s like he’s speaking a whole different language.”

 

…

Sooner or later, the other male would collapse if he went on like this. Will was a smart enough man to know this, himself, yet he didn’t stop. He couldn’t, could he?

The older man didn’t mind Will’s obvious dislike for Budge in the slightest; usually he might consider such a harsh way to react distasteful, unsavory. Hannibal didn’t appreciate being snapped at. However, instead of feeling disapproval, the corners of the doctor’s eyes crinkled with a hidden smile. There was no disfavour coming from the psychiatrist.

“It’d be no trouble at all, that I can promise you” the man responded, “Please never feel as though you were a disturbance, Will, when you are anything but. You are my friend, it would please me to aid you however I can. Of course I shall make time for this and for you, as I find it would be better to agree on a time other than our usual appointment time, for this matter.”

Then they wouldn’t get much of their usual talking done now, would they? No, Hannibal would like if they were to met outside of their sessions. He didn’t plan on rushing through this. Though, as the doctor wished for Will to learn a lot and indulge in this, there was one thing left still he needed to address.

“I don’t wish to intrude myself into your choices, though I’d advise you to get some rest, Will. I would prefer if you didn’t make the trip back to Wolf Trap this evening.”

The other male was particularly weary this evening; it might not go well for him to make the long drive back. While Hannibal did trust him to get home safely, he still had to assume that he wouldn’t truly find sleep there, either. His nightmares would haunt him; his dogs couldn’t rescue him from them.

“I’m certain your dogs would manage one night without you.”

 

…

In just a few words, the good doctor had managed to turn the conversation around entirely; and Will could feel his dark gaze as it prickled on the top of his head.  Hannibal’s gaze was almost a tangible thing sometimes, raising all the hair on the back of his neck.

Initially it had been a bit disconcerting, but as the weeks had melted into months, he had acclimated to it.

“Right.. Yes, of course.. If you have the time, I.. Well, whenever you want.  I can be here.”  He nodded, pressing one hand over his eyes as the world around them slipped and slid dizzyingly.   _Too tired_ , he diagnosed for himself, slowly letting himself slid deeper into the plush chair.  The fine leather creaked slightly under his weight, and finally he was able to rest his head against the back.

It wasn’t comfortable, but God, his head was just so heavy.

“No.. they’ll be fine… They have food.. Water.. All that…”  He confirmed, unsteady hands reaching for the arms of the chair, trying to prop himself upwards.  Like a crutch, he leaned against the chair, dragging himself with a grunt of effort to his feet.

“But I should.. Go.  Find somewhere to stay tonight..  Probably shouldn’t drive like this, you’re right..”  He muttered, stifling a yawn in the crook of his elbow.  What difference would it make?  The nasty voice in the back of his head whispered.  He’d be lucky to get an hour before his dreams shook him awake.

“Thanks, Doctor…”  He added in a mutter, his head feeling like it was full of rocks.  Just sitting down for a few minutes had almost dragged him off to sleep, “Just have to keep moving.. Can’t fall asleep on my feet.”

 

…

 

“Perhaps tomorrow afternoon,” the psychiatrist proposed, “My last appointment starts at one, I should have time for you about half past two, if that works for you. We shall meet at my house, of course, not at the office.”

Will looked as though he might fall asleep right there, in the office chair, though he was still fighting it. It wouldn’t be the most comfortable choice; Hannibal would have to pull him from his slumber were he to doze off. With every passing minute, the other man lost more of his composure to exhaustion.

At least Will didn’t argue – much. Of course his dogs would be okay; he would arrive only a few hours later than usual, that would cause no harm. Dogs had no sense of time; they might notice that something was off and greet their owner more eagerly the next morning, though it would be all right.

The other didn’t have to try so hard.

“I insist, Will,” the doctor added firmly, though not entirely without a hint of slight amusement. “I do have a spare room. You could leave your car here at the office, and I shall take you with me in the morning. Please do not make me ask you again.”

Finding a place to stay at there would be better than attempting to drive back home; though of course Hannibal would like it best if Will would stay with him. It would be no trouble at all – the doctor could make sure that the other man didn’t try wandering about at night, maybe even head outside, and at the same time he could experience Will’s sleep behavior.

“I doubt that you want to go through the hassle of finding a suitable hotel, in this state. You’re allowed to rest, you only have to wait until reaching a more appropriate mattress.”

 

…

 

Hannibal had a gift for making everything sound so _logical_.  As though Will were simply being nearsighted, and missing the blatantly obvious.  Of course a friend would offer the use of their spare room– if the situation were reversed, wouldn’t Will have done the same?

Struggling through the molasses in his mind, Will tried to piece together the fragments of his rapidly unraveling argument.  Something about it was wrong– Hannibal was his.. Therapist?  His friend?  One of those was an important distinction, but at that moment, faced with the edifice of the doctor’s solid rationale, he felt like he was grasping at sand.

The harder he tried to hold onto it, the quicker it seeped through his fingers.

Warning bells were swept under the all consuming exhaustion, and silenced.

“No.. I guess you’re right…”  He hummed slowly, cheeks puffing out slightly as he exhaled a slow, measured breath.  Nodding make the world wobble, and so he offered a lopsided, embarrassed smile instead, “I’m sorry, Dr. Lecter..  It’s my job, it gets too much into my head.  Makes me look for ulterior motives everywhere.’

“When your whole day is full of bodies and serial killers, you start jumping at shadows… But, yeah, if it’s no trouble, and you’re sure..”

 

…

 

The offer was logical, wasn’t it? It simply was the best and most reasonable course of action; it was something any decent friend would offer. Hannibal wasn’t the other’s therapist, not really, not officially. They were only having conversations. And so it wasn’t wrong of the psychiatrist to call their situation a friendship. Will was his friend – and he had the feeling that he was Will’s, as well.

“You don’t need to apologize to me. Let me assure you that I merely have your best interest in mind.” The older man stood, slowly approaching the other man, placing his hand on Will’s shoulder to give it a brief squeeze while glancing down at him. “I am very sure.” the doctor added, firmly and without the hint of a doubt in his voice.

He was more than certain; he might want this more than Will did.

“If you will.” Hannibal tilted his head in a come with me gesture, before he went to fetch his coat and his car keys. Their session wasn’t entirely over just yet, though it would be rather pointless to try and force a continuation. Will was too tired to truly pay attention; it would be best for him to feel a soft mattress beneath his back as quickly as possible.

“Offering you dinner before leaving you to sleep is an obviousness, of course.”

 

…

 

Over the years, Will had become a master of keeping himself functioning.  Sometimes only just, walking too close to the very fine line that protected him from falling apart entirely.  Exhaustion had become more familiar than health, the world almost perpetually filtered through a hazy lens of sleep deprivation.

Sometimes he walked too close to the line, and ended up stumbling over.  Or, like the night before, was accidentally nudged over by Jack leaning on him a bit too hard.  

“I don’t even know if I _could_ eat anything.. When I think about it, I just imagine drowning in a bowl of soup.  Not exactly what I want on my headstone.”

He pointed out with flat, deadpan humour, as he allowed Hannibal to lead him out of the office.  On autopilot he followed him out into the damp, cold evening, fat drops of icy rain escaping down the collar of his sweater and making him shudder at the oily chill.

After the initial whoosh of cold air from the vents, the inside of the car heated up to a comfortable temperature quickly, and Will rested his head back against the back, eyes gazing blindly through the rain speckled window.  “You know… I was looking over the old Ripper case file..  His style is the same, but there’s something.. Changed, in it.  It’s not just art for art’s sake anymore, there’s meaning there, now.  Like a one sided conversation.’

“I haven’t told Jack, of course.. I think he’d just tell me that I was reading too much into it.”

 

…

 

“I’m wounded that you believe I’d let you drown in your food, Will.” The psychiatrist tossed the same sort of humor back at the other male, lips tilting up at the edges. Naturally something like this wouldn’t happen; before Will would in fact fall asleep, the older man would make sure he went to bed.

Hannibal’s shoulders drew up just the smallest bit when they headed outside into the rain; the weather was unpleasant but not surprising. The engine purred lowly, quietly, and soon the heater was doing its job.

The seats were warming up, as well, and the doctor relaxed into the comfort.

For a moment, the man contemplated the other male’s words.

“You don’t think that the Ripper is talking to Jack.” Chances were that Jack Crawford would indeed believe that Will was merely imagining this new assessment; as much as he was pushing his tool, he might think that Will was too tired to truly distinguish between what was there and what he was reading into it. Even if Jack believed him—in the end, it would create more questions than answers, and the man was never pleased when this happened.

“Is he speaking to someone in particular, or does he wish to reach a large audience?” Sooner or later, Tattlecrime would publish a message, if there was one, after all.

“Whom do you think this conversation is for, Will? And is it supposed to remain one-sided, I’m wondering.”

 

…

 

The sound of the solid engine was a low, vibrating hum through the vehicle; not loud enough to drown out their conversation, but rather, an almost soothing rumble, deep and bass.  In the damp dark, the city of Baltimore seemed polished and slick, the streetlights surrounded by a diffuse halo of droplets.  

It was vaguely hypnotic, he thought– definitely time for bed.

“No, I don’t think he finds Jack much of a threat.  He’s considered him, is.. _aware_ of him _…_ But that’s not his focus.”  Will replied after a moment, grinding the heels of his hands into his blue eyes, and knocking his glasses lopsided on his nose, before righting them.

He didn’t want to close his eyes.  Not when the spectre of the crime scene still lingered behind his eyelids… Fresh with blood, as he had seen it.  The young man strung up with wires– his death that _should_ be so upsetting.  

And yet, Will thought with a stab of self reproach, it wasn’t.  The Ripper had turned the man into a canvas.  A means to an end.  And at some point, Will had begun to see them in the same way.

“It’s for someone specific.”  He replied without hesitation, finally turning his head against the back of the chair, looking over at the good doctor with a strained but thoughtful expression.  “It’s personal.  Someone he knows.. I think.  Maybe he wants to play for her, which explains the music.. Or wants to make her something better than she is..”

Will frowned, pushing forward to fold his head into his hands, tangling long fingers hard into his curls.  Letting his eyes close, and finally examining the after image of the crime scene in his memory.  “No, that’s not right, either.. I told you, I’m missing something.  It’s like it’s _right there_ , at the tip of my tongue.  But I just can’t find it.’

“Maybe Jack should take me off the case.. Maybe I _am_ just missing the point completely.  I’m supposed to be profiling the Ripper, not feeling like I’m reading his love letters.  I hope the person they’re meant for can see him more clearly than I can.”

 

…

 

It was true. Certainly the doctor had to keep an eye on Jack, however, he knew that the man wasn’t capable of comprehending what he was seeing. He wouldn’t be the one to catch the Ripper. Hannibal appreciated the FBI agent; Jack was slowly becoming a friend of his, but the man didn’t have what it would take. Will, on the other hand–

The windshield wiper was put on a higher setting when the rain grew stronger.

Will’s words caused a thoughtful expression to cross over the psychiatrist’s face. “Perhaps this is less about making his target, if we can call them that, something that they aren’t. If the Ripper wished to create then I assume he would. Perhaps he’s attempting to simply get someone, a special someone, involved.”

A more neutral choice of depicting gender; another small hint given. It was personal—he did want to play for him. Though, more importantly, the Ripper was interested in playing together. And this was what they would start to do, tomorrow afternoon.

It wasn’t completely surprising that the other male considered leaving this case behind. It was straining, maybe more so than the others, and at the moment, Will felt as though he wouldn’t find the Ripper, anyway.

“If you believe that this is what is best for you then I certainly encourage the decision. However, I’m also afraid that this won’t leave you be until you’ve seen it as what it is. I don’t intend to push you into one direction or the other, as this is entirely your choice, but knowing you, I presume another death caused by the Ripper might feel like a failure on your side. I’d dislike to see you resenting yourself for distancing yourself from the matter. A decent amount of rest shall make it easier to decide with a clear head, Will.”

Hannibal didn’t want the other to retreat; he wanted him to stay, to keep talking, to sink into this further.

 

…

 

“If he’s trying to lure in a particular someone, Dr. Lecter, then I feel sorry for him.  Currently I think all he’s managing to fish for is exhausted FBI agents.”  With a wry, self deprecating smile, Will sat up a little straighter in his chair; sliding a thumb under the uncomfortable edge of the seatbelt, and dragging it away from his throat.

“You’re probably right.. I mean, I know, logically that sleep deprivation makes for poor decisions.  I just want to do the right thing… And the closer I get to this case, the harder that ‘right’ seems to find.”

Outside of the office, it was easier to view Hannibal as his friend.  The formal trappings of their professional relationship were more obvious there; enforced in the straight lines of their neatly facing chairs.  And the greater distance they put between that, and them, the more the tension in Will’s shoulders seemed to ease.

He cringed as they pulled up outside Hannibal’s elegant townhouse, his blue eyes flicking up to the dripping sky, “Of all the nights for miserable slush..”  He muttered under his breath, hugging the thin layer of his coat more securely around him.  “And you’re not pushing.  Seeing things in the morning with fresh eyes is probably sound advice… Providing I can sleep.  And that Jack doesn’t call me at 3am…”

He hesitated, pushing open the door and shuddering at the cold, his body feeling all the more chilled as exhaustion stole his ability to regular heat.  Hurrying up to the door, he added offhandedly, “If the Ripper drags me out to a crime scene in this… Well, I don’t think even he would get much enjoyment out of playing human harps in this weather!”

 

…

 

“Yet I doubt he’ll cast them back into the water,” Hannibal replied, giving a more genuine smile in return. It nearly sounded as though the other man thought the Ripper would be disappointed in his catch. Will gave himself too little credit. He always did.

“It is easier said than done, I’m well aware, but if one is struggling too much then one tends to lose sight of the actual goal.” The doctor couldn’t exactly tell Will to avoid trying too hard; lives were on the line, Jack Crawford was close on his heels. However, the best choices were made when one was level-headed. Rest would help with that.

The psychiatrist wasn’t all too pleased, either, having to climb out of the warm, dry car to enter the house, and he pushed his fingers through his slightly ruffled  hair once he had opened the door for them and turned on the lights.  The house was pleasantly warm, welcoming. “Did you ever consider shutting off your phone?” the man asked, not mockingly, carefully removing his slightly damp coat, slipping out of his shoes. “You deserve a night filled with restful sleep, Will. I’ll not be happy if Jack decides to take this away from you.”

It wasn’t as though Hannibal could stop the man, unless he turned Will’s phone off, himself. That might mean overstepping his bounds. The psychiatrist was rarely opposed to this, however.

“It’s unlikely that a new crime will happen this night.” Not only because the Ripper didn’t want to get wet. “So instead of worrying about a new case, you should worry about your own well-being, for once. Here, let me take your coat.”


	2. Rubato

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hannibal is an excellent host.

_**Rubato: A style where the strict tempo is temporarily abandoned for a more emotional tone.** _

 

“Anyone outside tonight has more to fear from hypothermia than anything else.”  Will followed a half step behind the good doctor, rubbing his hands together with a visible shiver as they ducked into the welcoming warmth of the house. “I don’t think the Ripper would be out tonight, anyway.. When you think about it, he isn’t…Driven, like other killers.  He doesn’t follow a schedule.  And going out tonight would be inconvenient.”

His coat was more than a little threadbare, some of the stitching on one of the shoulder seams starting to fray and come apart.  The material was just a bit too damp for just their brief dash from the car, betraying just how long Will must have been standing outside at the crime scene.  For only being early in the evening, it felt much later; the dark sky and inclement weather making the world outside the house seem all the more miserable.

_I’ll not be happy if Jack decides to take this away from you…_

The warning bells struggled to reach his conscious mind, flashing red in the thick, molasses depths of his overtired brain.  “He told me once that if I shut it off, he’d show up at my door.  I don’t know if he was kidding, and I haven’t felt like calling his bluff.  Just in case.”  

Will kicked off his shoes, one of them flopping over sideways, as he followed Hannibal further into the house.  Briskly he rubbed his hands over his arms, trying to create enough friction in the old blue button-down to chase away the chill settling into his marrow.  It didn’t work, but he felt a little better for the effort.  “I promise I’ll turn the volume down though, so it doesn’t wake you if he calls.”

 

…

 

“And by his not being driven you mean he doesn’t kill compulsively?” That thought would go against what most professionals assumed about the Ripper. He was an intelligent, sadistic psychopath, someone who was collected, but with this diagnosis, also lacked foresight and understanding of others. This is how they attempted to define him. Hannibal was always curious about Will’s opinion in the matter.

The doctor took the other man’s coat, not about to comment on either the quality or the damp state of the material. Will was here, right now, ready to grow warmer and more comfortable in just a few moments. At times it caused him a hint of displeasure, knowing that the other could certainly afford something nicer for himself, but wouldn’t. Perhaps he should try to convince Will that a new, cozier coat was in order sometime soon, especially so if a Jack insisted they stay outside in the rain to study a new murder.

“He can show up at your doorstep all he likes, this night. He won’t find you there this time.” And the psychiatrist was pleased about that. Jack was clearly pushing too much; the FBI agent made it easy for the doctor to act as the more reasonable, compassionate friend.

Hannibal eyed the other’s shoes for but a moment, before he averted his gaze and headed further into the house. “I fear I’ll wake nonetheless, so there is no need. Besides, I do want to know if you’ll still be here in the morning, Will.” His routine would need to be changed a little if he had a guest over for breakfast, after all. Apart from that, the psychiatrist would certainly notice if Jack called, anyway. Voices, footsteps, the sound of a closing door. Hannibal didn’t intend to miss the other’s leave-taking.

“You might like to shower while I tend to dinner?”

 

…

 

“No, he doesn’t… Compulsive and _impulsive_ aren’t the same thing.  The Ripper has been doing this a long time, but it’s because he enjoys it.  Not because he has some bugbear in the back of his brain, telling him he has to.”  The implication there was strictly obvious; the official profile was wrong.  Not entirely, but fundamentally, they had stripped the man from the equation, and replaced him with unverified facts.

Rubbing his hands over his arms, Will followed Hannibal towards the kitchen, wiggling his toes in his plain grey socks to try and coax the blood back into them.  Jack was just doing the best he could, he reminded himself.  People were dying, their bodies being.. Elevated?  Into something else.  But Jack could only see the horror, and the human suffering that came with it.  

Burning Will out, like a candle at both ends, didn’t make him happy.  It just seemed like a necessary sacrifice for the greater good.

“I’m not intending to sneak out in the middle of the night, Dr. Lecter… Don’t worry, barring fire, flood, or Act of God, I’ll be here in the morning.”

If he were being honest, Will had always been a bit intimidated by the good doctor’s house.  It was elegant in the extreme, each piece and facet picked out specifically in Hannibal’s exacting taste.  Utterly refined, much like the man himself.  

“Maybe I will..”  He hesitated, turning over the offer in his mind.  Hot water would help chase away the chill, yes.. And let him scrub off the grime of being outside in the field all day.  Standing in the drizzling streets as they dismantled the Ripper’s most recent tableau.  

On the other hand, his insides tensed awkwardly at the idea of being naked in another person’s house.   _You’re being ridiculous, Graham._ Said the no nonsense tones of his inner voice, _You’re frozen, and probably filthy, go get yourself cleaned up._

 _“_ Which door is it?”

 

…

 

“And do you intend to tell Jack about this?” The other man already planned on keeping his assumption about a possibly hidden message to himself; it would be no surprise if Will decided to not speak to the FBI about their faulty profile, either. The other was clearly the pick of the bunch, yet when it was inconvenient, Jack thought it might be better to question his understanding instead of ruining something he had worked on for so long and allowing it to be altered. However, Will had told Hannibal, who was much more intrigued by his perception, for numerous reasons.

Of course Jack was desperate, under a lot of pressure. It was his job to make the murders stop, and he knew that Will was his most efficient tool. Though, once he was broken, he would do no good any longer. So was this sacrifice truly the best choice?

“Well, I am glad to hear so, Will. I certainly wouldn’t want it any other way.”

There was no need for the other to feel intimidated; Hannibal did wish for him to feel at home. There were merely the very same rules that also applied to his office, and no more for Will to worry about. It wouldn’t do for him to be tense all evening, as that was exactly what they were trying to avoid, wasn’t it?

The doctor noticed Will’s hesitation, though choose not to interrupt the obvious inner monologue to find a decision. It came a moment later, in a question. “Come, I’ll show you.” With a small, inviting smile on his face Hannibal headed through the hallway, upstairs, and opened a door near the end of the corridor. “If this would be alright with you, this shall be your room.” The older male glanced around, pointing to the other door across the room. “Towels you can find in the bathroom.” And dry, fresh clothes, Hannibal felt free to assume, he would bring to the room while the other was in the shower.

 

…

 

“Probably nothing.  Jack needs me to find the Ripper, Dr. Lecter.. It spares him from having to understand the killer on a personal level.  He doesn’t want to know the man behind the crimes.  I don’t have that luxury.”  Detachment was something Will’s mind had never been able to gift him; always looking too closely, seeing too much, filtering the world, through the distorted lens of his own empathy.

Following Hannibal upstairs, Will kept his arms tucked close to his sides, not daring to accidentally bump into the gracefully textured wallpaper, or jostle one of the impossibly beautiful, detailed sketches in frames.  Some parts of the house– the kitchen, the dining room– had become, slowly, familiar enough that he no longer felt the need to walk on eggshells.

But upstairs, in Hannibal’s private part of the house, was no such matter.

“That’s more than fine..”  He added, making a note of the bedroom, before closing the bathroom door behind himself.  In Hannibal’s house the pipes didn’t rattle and groan in protest, and the hot water came fast and steaming.  Despite himself, Will felt his eyes dropping closed, the heat seeping into his bones blissfully.  

As much as he wished he could just stand there forever, Will forced himself to scrub up quickly; scouring away the remains of the crime scene, and mentally watching the grime of work sluice and swirl down the drain.  Grabbing a towel, Will caught his reflection in the foggy mirror; drawn and exhausted, “You look closer to 50 than 34, Graham.”  He sighed to himself, shaking his head.

Well, nothing to be done about that.

 

…

 

Will had the opportunity to get to know the killer, to comprehend him, to see him. Jack would remain blind. Even if in the end, he would be aware of that very fact, there would be nothing he could do to truly change it. The FBI agent would never understand. And Hannibal didn’t want Will to be detached, distanced. He wanted him close, even when that meant a certain degree of vulnerability. A risk to be harmed.

The wish for connection and curiosity were stronger than hesitance and skepticism, when it came to this.

Mayhaps the man should invite Will over more often. Usually, the other male insisted that he wasn’t good company, that he didn’t intend to be part of any gatherings. Hannibal disagreed on the former. Regardless, having him over for dinner and offering him to stay every now and then, after one glass of wine too many, might relax the other’s shoulders a tad, when he was climbing those stairs another time.

A shower could make one even more exhausted; the older man expected Will to be sluggish at best, once he stepped out of the bathroom. In the meantime, the doctor had chosen something for the other to wear, if he wished to – a simple, comfy pair of pants and a soft, white shirt. Surely Hannibal wouldn’t be able to stop him should Will decide to dress in his own, now certainly uncomfortable clothes; he could merely be optimistic about his offer.

After placing the clothing on the bed, the psychiatrist headed back downstairs, into the kitchen, to take care of dinner.

Unfortunately, there was no time to create something more elaborate. He didn’t want to keep Will from sleeping too long. Something simple it was, then.

 

…

 

There were clothes on the bed.

Will looked down at the charcoal grey pants and creamy white shirt, as if their presence and composition were highly confusing.  He didn’t have to touch them to know that they would be buttery soft, and a world apart from his own clammy, worked-in all day clothes.

And he knew where they had come from.  Obviously.  

But… _Why?_

Standing at the foot of the bed, Will fingered the frayed collar of his buttoned down shirt, eyeing the offered outfit skeptically.  Once again, the warning bells clanged in the back of his skull; but.. What harm could it do?  Dressing in damp clothes would just make him cold again, he rationalized; entirely defeating the purpose of the shower.  

Clearly, Hannibal had just been thinking ahead.  

Laying out his own things for the next day, Will pulled on the offered shirt, sketching a wry smile as the sleeves draped too low over his hands; the pants were little better, and with a shake of his head, he rolled back the cuffs to make sure he wouldn’t tread on them.

The material was rich, and Will closed his eyes for a single instant as he breathed in the lingering scent of Hannibal’s cologne.  Cedar and snow, he thought; it was fresh and crisp, without being cloying, complementing the soap they had been washed in.   _It’s…_  He began to think, his sleepy mind momentarily slipping free of his constant death grip.

_It’s… Wonderful._

Giving himself a rough shake, Will made his way downstairs, his curls picked out in a damp riot around his face, pushed out of the way by restless hands.  “Whatever you’re making, it smells fantastic, Dr. Lecter..”  He said as he walked into the kitchen, arms hugged tightly around himself, feeling a bit exposed without his usual layers.  

“And.. thanks.  For everything.  Getting back into those clothes wasn’t very tempting.”

 

…

 

Others might not call this a simple meal, though for Hannibal it was far from the ostentatious treat he would have prepared if he was given more time. The steak was rubbed with a slice of the garlic, seasoned, before the psychiatrist placed it into the pan. It had been the quickest dish he had been able to come up with, considering the ingredients the man had at home right now.

He knew Will was approaching. The doctor smelled him before he saw him; light hints of soap, his soap, overlaying the other’s scent, the one he so often attempted to hide with cheap aftershave that really wasn’t pleasant to the nose.

The older male smiled at the compliment, lips still quirked up when he turned around. Hannibal was so very, utterly pleased when the other came back into the kitchen, wearing the clothes he had picked out for him. Sometimes it truly was worth it to risk overstepping one’s boundaries. The doctor made a mental note of the fact that Will was much more open to suggestions when he was weary. Most people were, weren’t they?

“I’d thought so. You’re very welcome, Will.“ For but a brief moment Hannibal eyed the other male, from head to toe. The subtle amusement he felt at seeing that the clothes were just a small tad too large was hardly visible. “You might wish to have your own clothing washed, before tomorrow.“ Another offer. Of course the older male would take care of this, as well, if Will asked him to.

“For now, however, please have a seat. Dinner shall be ready shortly.”

Artichokes were cooked, next, and soon he added peppers and thyme. Content with the smell of the meal, the psychiatrist fetched a small spoon to sample, nodding to himself once.

 

…

 

It wasn’t that Will didn’t know _how_ to cook.  He had been raised in a good Creole house, no matter how transient and atypical it might have been.  No, it was more than, when he returned home (usually bone-weary and his head full of terribly things) he simply didn’t have the energy left to put in the effort.

Toast and takeaway had become staples, and neither them were particularly tasty.

Hannibal’s kitchen, in comparison, smelled properly divine.  

Stifling a yawn in the draping sleeve of the soft shirt, Will glanced around for somewhere to sit.  In the corner was a surprisingly comfortably chair, and he sank into it gratefully; letting the dense, plush material hold him softly upright.  “Mmhmm.. I should wash them, you’re right… Don’t want to go to work tomorrow looking like I spent the night under a cardboard blanket..”  Will hummed, propping his heavy head on his hand.

There were very few places in the world that Will Graham felt properly safe.  But the sounds of the sizzling pans, and the steady, rhythmic chop of Hannibal’s knife, were just so soothing.  Homey sounds.  A world away from the crime scene, and the horror; it was warm there, this safe space that smelled of garlic and sharp rosemary.

Will’s eyes drifted, his eyelids weighted, as he listened to the other man moving around the kitchen.

“Mmm..hmm..”  He added, trying to sound more awake than he felt.   _But this is a good place.._  His exhausted mind provided, _Just close your eyes for a little moment._

 

_…_

 

To Hannibal, meals were too important to slack when it came to them. One had to make sure to only put the best in one’s body; food provided one with life, after all. And so there was no way that the doctor would choose something cheap and substandard. Of course preparing a dish required effort, though it was well worth it. He wished that Will would agree; Hannibal was aware that the other male didn’t spend enough time enjoying things. He must feel like he neither had the time – nor was his well-being important enough – for good food and pleasant pastimes in which neither dogs nor a fishing rod were involved.

“Very well. They’ll be fresh and ready in the morning,” the psychiatrist promised, clearly content. At least Will would agree to the simpler things.

The older man didn’t mind that the other was about to drift off. Will didn’t need to help with dinner – in fact, Hannibal was very set on not allowing him to assist him, so he could rest instead. A brief nap wouldn’t do any harm.

And so the doctor continued quietly, chopping the rest of the vegetables, arranging their plates, carrying them to the dining room table once he deemed their meal ready. They would sit close to each other; this wasn’t supposed to be a feast. It was a dinner between friends, after all. A bottle of wine was chosen, next.

Once the table was set to the man’s liking, he approached the other male, lightly putting his hand on his shoulder. “I fear I must wake you, Will, as dinner is ready. I wouldn’t want for you to wake during the night because you fell asleep with an empty stomach.”

 

…

 

Generally it was Will’s cell phone that woke him up.  Several hours before his alarm was set to go off, of course, and almost exclusively because Jack had thought of something that just couldn’t be left until morning.  The other nights were worse, because he was already awake, staring at the ceiling and knowing each minute was rolling him closer to the time when he would have to drag himself through the shower, and pretend that he wasn’t running on fumes.

Waking to Hannibal’s warm hand on his shoulders, and his quiet voice, was an entirely different experience.

A furrow formed between Will’s brows as he pulled himself back to reality, his glasses sliding low on his nose.  “Right.. M’up… Sorry, Dr. Lecter.. I didn’t mean to fall asleep on you.”  He added after a groggy half-beat, sitting up straighter and clumsily trying to rub the gritty, exhausted feeling from his eyes (a decision that left his glasses even more wonky than before!)

With a boyish shade of a smile, Will followed Hannibal into the dining room; the elaborate seeming place settings earning the doctor a breathy huff of laughter.  “You’ve outdone yourself, as always.  I don’t think I realized how hungry I was until I started smelling it.”

 

…

 

“It is not a problem, Will. I do hope you’ll find a proper amount of rest tonight.” The psychiatrist led the other male into the dining room, offering a small tilt of his lips in return. “Steak with artichoke and cherry pepper sauté.” Hannibal explained, gesturing to the chair before he took a seat, himself. “I’m afraid I didn’t have the time to prepare something more extravagant this evening.”

Normally, his guests were used to more artfully prepared meals. He knew that Will didn’t mind, yet felt the need to comment on it regardless. Hannibal already had an idea for breakfast; hopefully Jack wouldn’t decide to keep the other male up and make him come to a crime scene. The Ripper would be quiet for the rest of the night. This, perhaps, couldn’t be said for others, however.

The doctor reached for the silverware, delicately cutting into the meat and lifting the fork to his lips, chewing slowly. “You must allow yourself some calm, Will. No human being is equipped to live beneath constant strain for so long. As your friend, I must tell you that I’m concerned. May I ask you to promise me something, Will?”

Carefully setting away fork and knife, Hannibal took the wine glass by the stem, smelling the dark, rich liquid even if his gaze never left the other man.

 

…

 

As always, the meal set before Will was something more elaborate than he could have ever attempted to cook on his own.  Before meeting Hannibal, he hadn’t known the right fork to use (and, admittedly, much of the time he just watched Hannibal and tried not to make a fool of himself) or why there needed to be multiple forks in the first place!

The food was always amazing, and as the months had slipped by, Will had learned to just relax a little.  That Hannibal wouldn’t, in fact, crucify him for using the wrong cutlery.

“Not extravagant.. You’ve saved me from a lukewarm burger from that sketchy place near my house.”  Will smiled boyishly, seeming a bit restored from even his brief nap.  Sometimes it was amazing what half an hour of stolen rest could accomplish.

Taking a thoughtful bite, Will’s thoughts were sidetracked by the unexpected question.  Slowly he raised an eyebrow, setting down his fork, and giving Hannibal his full attention.  “You can ask.. But I’m not going to promise until I hear it.”  He bargained, fidgeting with the slightly too-long sleeve of the borrowed shirt he was wearing.

Nobody who worked for the FBI made blind promises.

“What is it?”

 

…

 

Hannibal had grown up like this; he could barely remember a time when he hadn’t known how to properly behave at the dinner table. Nevertheless, while others might see Will’s lack of knowledge when it came to such things as inelegance, sloppiness, the doctor found that the only reaction it caused him was the urge to teach and to share. Part of him was well aware that his fondness of the other man altered his points of view, at times. There was hardly a hint of disapproval when Will accidently grabbed the wrong cutlery.

For a moment there, the older man eyed the other, blankly. “Do you ever desire to prepare something for yourself?” The psychiatrist was somewhat curious. “You’d know how to, wouldn’t you?” Will was a grown man, after all; it would be quite necessary to know how to cook a meal, especially so if one was living alone. He supposed that the other man simply didn’t see the need.

The doctor wasn’t surprised at Will’s words, and gave a nod. He wouldn’t want to promise something when he might not wish to keep to his reply. “If you find yourself unable to sleep tonight, Will, please do not hesitate to come to my room and wake me. I want you to rest, and there are several methods that might aid you in that, if you wished to try them.”

 

…

 

“You’re asking if I can cook?  Hannibal, I’m a lot of things, but not quite that hopeless!”  Will’s exhausted expression broke with a thoroughly bemused smile, words punctuated with a quiet chuckle, “Yes, I know how.  My mamere; err, that’s my grandmother,”  He clarified quickly, distractedly aware that Acadian French was a far cry from Parisienne.

“Anyway, she was one of those frightening Southern women that expected all of us to lend a hand.  If you were in the kitchen, you were doing something.”  It was a little of the exhaustion, and a lot of his mood buoyed by the promise of sleep.. And just the simple enjoyment of Hannibal’s company, that prompted him to reveal that little bit about his own life.  “But Creole cooking isn’t fancy.  I guess I never mentioned it because I was worried that you’d think it was a bit.. I don’t know.. too pedestrian.”

Will took a bite of his dinner, and another, buying himself a long moment to seriously consider the offer.  On the surface it seemed innocent enough– but could he really disturb the doctor’s sleep?

“I…”  He hummed, toying with the fork loosely held in his fingers, “I’m not sure, Dr. Lecter.  I mean.. You need your sleep, too…”  Will trailed off, setting down the utensil against the side of the plate, and dragging his hand back through his damp curls roughly, shoving them out of his face.

“What sort of methods?”

 

…

 

The very first thing the psychiatrist noticed was that the other had called him Hannibal. It was a rare occurrence; usually, Will would address him as Dr. Lecter, even though it wasn’t like this the other way around. However, the older man preferred the friendly usage of his first name, and the corners of his eyes crinkled as he beamed just lightly.

“I do not consider your past to be too pedestrian in the slightest, Will.” Quite the contrary; the doctor listened keenly as the other chose to share something about himself. “In fact, I find it to be rather interesting. Should you ever be in the mood to cook then I’d be all too happy to get a taste for what your mamere used to prepare, with your help.”

Naturally the man didn’t intend to invite himself. However, he wanted Will to know that it would be a pleasure to be asked to come over, also for this. Hannibal was always curious about him; he wouldn’t decline the chance to learn more.

When the other male didn’t instantly refuse, the psychiatrist couldn’t help the content little stretch of his lips. “I do not require a lot of rest at all, so that should truly not be an issue,” he responded truthfully. “I could suggest medication, though I believe a form of meditation therapy might be the better choice. It would help you to find calm and repose.”

 

…

 

“The next time then, Dr. Lecter.. I’ll make sure to cook for you.  It only seems fair, since you have me over so often.”  Will decided, ignoring the twist of nerves and low grade anxiety that bubbled up through the sticky fog of his own lack of sleep.  “At least, I will, as soon as I’ve had enough sleep that I won’t be in danger of falling asleep in the jambalaya.”

Distracted by the question, Will didn’t notice the way the other man’s expression lit up, just a little.  He pursed his lips slightly, before drawing the lower one absently through his teeth, pinning it for a moment as he considered his reply.

“I’ve..tried sedatives before.  I really don’t like them.”  He said finally, picking up his fork again, and taking a bite– more for something to buy him time, as he suppressed a shudder.  Maybe some people could stand the almost paralyzed sensation, as everything began to shut down.. But Will was certainly not one of them.

“Alana suggested meditation.  A few times.  But I just don’t think that some deep breathing, and picturing a calm, blue ocean, is going to do much against my nightmares.  Then again..”  He added, his smile twisting with sardonic self-recrimination, “I’ve seriously considered trying Lormetazepam.. But any strong sedatives run the risk of making my nightmares even more intense…”

“Maybe I should just get you to crack me over the head with a frying pan.  What do you think, doctor?  What’s a little concussion between friends?”

 

…

 

“If you wish to. It certainly is no necessity, however, I enjoy having you over. That doesn’t depend on a favor that might be returned. Please only invite me over if and when it may please you.” And if that time didn’t come then no complaint would leave the older’s lips, either. Instead, Hannibal might make it his task to make an attempt at Creole cooking, himself, and have the other tell him how well he had managed, in the end.

The psychiatrist nodded in understanding. “I’ll have to agree. Having them administered and becoming aware of their effect isn’t the most pleasant experience.” There was a lack of control, once sedatives came into play. One wouldn’t be able to hinder one’s body from dozing off. Hannibal could see why the other man wasn’t fond of them.

With a twitch of his mouth, the older man replied. “Mayhaps we should work through our list of suggestions, then. I’d recommend starting with the gentlest method, that being a guided meditation. Then we may try medication. And should you still be awake then, Will, then I might contemplate using my wok, as the very last resort.”

Of course he wouldn’t, though the mental image was slightly amusing nevertheless.

For now, however, a tad of his attention went back to the food before it grew cold, and Hannibal slowly and carefully cleared his plate, silverware placed neatly onto it once he had finished.

 

…

 

Despite the exhaustion that hung about him like a millstone from his neck, Will managed not to fall asleep in his dinner.  It was a near thing, however, and as soon as the last bite had vanished, he politely (and very apologetically) excused himself for the evening.  It was, he decided, more polite than falling asleep on the table, his head resting on the silverware.  

Because the crash, the end of his struggling endurance, wasn’t simply imminent.  It had arrived.

He was asleep before his head even touched the pillow.


	3. Allemande

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hannibal and Will talk shop, and Jack has unfortune timing.

**_Dissonance: Harsh, discordant, and lack of harmony. Also a chord that sounds incomplete until it resolves itself on a harmonious chord._ **

 

_The world was vibrating.  Like a plucked string, it hummed through his bones, his teeth chattering in his skull as it flowed through him.  Anxiously Will pulled at his arms, his legs; his eyes snapping wide as he stared out at the silent alley._

_From the shadows, the black figure, antlered and impassive, watched him._

_Will couldn’t move his arms._

_Knowing what he would see, Will looked to his hands, a ragged sob tearing from his bloody throat.  In the dark, the wires glistened; singing; as they coiled around his wrists.  The wires fanned out from his splayed fingers, radiating from his skin._

_And as Will struggled, the man moved closer.  Black hands plucked the strings, making them shriek.  Making him dance._

_The music was…_

With a choked cry, Will sat bolt upright in bed, his chest heaving as he greedily drew breath.  In the dark of the room, there was only the light of his cell phone, mimicking the terrible chime that had seeped into his dreams.

“Jesus fucking Christ…”  He muttered, grabbing for his phone, and wincing at the noise.  “Jack, I’ve only been asleep for two hours.  It’s midnight.  Unless the Ripper has actually shown up at your goddamn door in a tutu, I don’t want to know.”

On the other end of the line, Jack laughed tersely, “ _We aren’t sure if it’s the Ripper.  That’s why we need you down here now.  I’ll text you the address.”_

 

…

 

While the older male would have forgiven him for falling asleep on the dinner table, it had honestly been the better choice to simply retire for the night. It was late enough, and Will was more than fatigued. The doctor himself spent a while cleaning away their dishes and tending to the other’s clothes before heading to his room, as well, changing and lying down. Hannibal dozed off rather easily and quickly, though rarely for long. Mostly, he was pondering.

The other man was sleeping in the guest room. Would he truly come to him if he found himself unable to drift off? The next day, they would certainly have a long talk about the crime. Will would grant him to hear more of his views and opinions. And Hannibal would get to show him how to play the piano, how to create—how the brain worked when it brought something new into being. The psychiatrist was looking forward to this, more so than Will would believe.

After casting a brief glance at the clock, the older male turned onto his other side, allowing his eyes to close—before they snapped open just a moment later. The house was utterly quiet – and so it was no surprise that the doctor heard Will’s phone, its insistent ringing, and the moment it stopped. He could easily guess that it was Jack. Jack, who didn’t seem to understand that a person required more than two hours of sleep a night. Jack, who refused to look closely enough to see that whatever he had found hadn’t been created by the Ripper. Jack, who was so incapable of comprehending and who was about to destroy his favorite tool.

The FBI agent who had just ruined his plans for breakfast. Because despite the words, Hannibal supposed that Will wouldn’t deny him. He would get up, get dressed. Perhaps call a cab, because his own car was still at Hannibal’s office.

Now he could either pretend that he hadn’t noticed, feign sleep, see if Will would tell him, or he could get up and be a little more helpful. The psychiatrist chose the latter. Dressed in pajama pants and a sweater, Hannibal stood and made his way through the corridor, heading toward the kitchen. If the other man decided to do what was being asked of him, then at least he shouldn’t leave without a cup of coffee.

 

…

 

His eyes felt like they had been filled with sand, gritty and rough with every blink.  It was familiar, and fishing for his glasses on the bedside table did nothing to help.  Listening is silence, he slowly slid his glasses onto his nose, detouring to press the pads of his fingers firmly against his temples.  “Right.. Jack, it’s snowing.  It’s after midnight and–”

 _“Psychopaths don’t care about the weather!  Get your ass down here, Graham.”_  Came the tinny voice through the line, Jack’s usual baritone sounding even more annoyed than it usually did.

The blurry eyes were just as familiar as the leaden weight of obligation in his chest.  It dangled there like a pendulum, knocking against heart and lungs without care for the man who had to wear it.

Out in the hallway, he heart Hannibal leaving his room, and cringed guiltily.  So much for trying not to let Jack interrupt the good doctor.  “Jack, just listen to me.  The Ripper _just_ killed someone, he’s going to be enjoying that success before he kills another.  This isn’t his sole amusement in life.  He’s going to have other hobbies.  You’re just seeing one side of it.”

Propelled by his own guilty conscience, Will dragged his feet out of bed, flinching as his toes met the cold floor.  The cell phone still tucked against his shoulder, Will padded downstairs, following the sounds of Hannibal shuffling around below.

His curls were slightly flattened on one side, and his glasses didn’t sit quite right on his nose; he looked, entirely, like someone who had just been dragged unceremoniously out of bed.  “Sorry for waking you..” He whispered distractedly over at the doctor, squeezing his eyes shut as Jack’s voice sounded through the tiny speaker.

_“Look, Will, just drive up, check the scene, and then you can go back to bed.”_

 

…

 

After he had left his room it didn’t take long for the other male to follow. His door opened and he was talking still, sounding tired and grumpy, which was all too understandable considering the time. Will was much more exhausted than Hannibal; he looked like a walking corpse. The psychiatrist wouldn’t say so, though his gaze certainly told enough.

He wasn’t pleased. In fact, he was slightly upset.

They had both known that this was a very possible outcome of this night. Nevertheless, there was a small flare of ire within Hannibal. Jack was his friend; however, that didn’t mean that he couldn’t disapprove strongly. He could easily imagine how the man sounded like right now, on the phone. Impatient and desperate, angry and demanding. As though Will could solve this case without having to truly try, but was intent on refusing because he was lazy and sleepy. This is what Jack would make it seem; he could guilt trip rather well when it was necessary, couldn’t he.

If he weren’t sure that Will was entirely against it, the doctor might consider having a talk with the FBI agent about this.

Maybe he would, anyway. Jack had given him the duty to make sure that Will was alright, after all.

The doctor dismissed Will’s apology with an elegant flick of his hand and the hint of a smile, returning his attention to his French press as he continued preparing coffee for the both of them. Will hadn’t woken him; it had been Jack. There was nothing the other male should feel guilty about, nothing the older man would hold against him – other than not caring about himself enough, perhaps.

Soon, the rich scent of coffee filled the kitchen, and Hannibal moved to pour the dark liquid into two mugs.

 

…

 

The scent of the coffee was heady and dark, the familiar smell giving life to his brain.  After all, he had spent most of his adult life training his brain to associate that smell, with wakefulness.  God, what he really needed was about 12 hours of uninterrupted rest, Will thought ruefully; it was unfortunate that Jack seemed to forget that.

Taking the cup, Will hesitated between pinning the phone against his shoulder, or just taking the lazy route and putting it on speaker.  But even exhausted, his manners won out, and he flashed Hannibal a grateful smile as he brought the piping mug to his mouth.  It was too hot to drink, and the steam fogged up his glasses, but it smelled divine.

But more than his own failing health, it was the look of … something.. Dark and annoyed, on the good doctor’s face, that convinced Will to stay.

“Look, Jack, just text me the photos.  I’ll be able to tell you if it’s the Ripper, and when it isn’t?  Then I’m going back to bed.  Besides,” He added after a beat, sinking down into the chair in the corner of the room, bloodshot eyes staring out the window, into the blowing, slushy snow outside.

“I’m not at home, and if I try to drive back to Virginia tonight…  Look, if you don’t want me smeared across the highway, you’ll send me the photos, and let me get back to bed.”

 _“You’re not at home?  Will…”_ This time Jack sounded wary, like someone had stolen away his favourite toy, and now he wasn’t sure where to find it.  The man with the best intentions, Will thought; it was his methods that were problematic.

 

…

 

The psychiatrist slightly leaned against the counter, delicately holding his own mug, breathing in the scent as he watched the other man. Maybe the caffeine would help to keep Will awake for a little while; he might have to fetch more coffee sometime soon, however. Especially because the drive would be long and tiring. The older male had a good idea of what he might do if Will ended up getting into an accident because he was too exhausted to drive—he should probably offer to give him a ride not only to the office, but to the crime scene, if the other didn’t wish to call a cab.

Light brows arched some when the psychiatrist heard the other’s next words, though. Hannibal was surprised, pleasantly so.

The doctor had no doubts that Will’s statement was true; surely the other would be able to tell if it was a Ripper case or not, simply by looking at pictures of the tableau. Will was good. The FBI agent might calm a bit – not much, surely, as a murder had happened nevertheless and he would want to find the culprit – when he heard that the Ripper hadn’t been involved. There was a small chance that he would allow Will some rest, then, even if it was not a certainty.

Will even let Jack know that he wasn’t at home; it was a good argument against leaving the house for this crime, definitely. It would make the ride to the scene longer, more difficult. With curiosity, Hannibal followed their conversation while also making sure to not seem too nosy, slowly nursing his coffee.

 

…

 

“I’m fine, just tired.  Send me the pictures, and I’ll tell you if it’s the Ripper.”  Will’s voice was drawn with bone deep fatigue, every part of his body screaming out for him to just shut off the phone, and go back to bed.  Retreat to the plush warmth of Hannibal’s guest room, and pull the blanket up over his head.

Ending the call, Will dropped his phone onto the arm of the chair, his spine curved as though the weight of the world was on it.  Slowly he took a sip of the coffee, letting his eyes drop closed for a minute–  waiting for his phone to ring again.

“I’m sorry he woke you…  I know I said I was going to shut off my volume, but I completely forgot.. No excuse for it.”  He added, blinking elaboratedly as he swam through the sticky molasses mess on the inside of his skull.  “He needs to realize that not every ritualistic killer is the Ripper.”

Will, however, wasn’t sorry to have been dragged out of his nightmares.  His voice was rough, thick with the late hour, as he heaved a heavy, resigned sigh.  “Maybe I should have tried to head back to Wolf Trap when I left your office.  Would have saved you the trouble of all this.. I’m sorry, Hannibal.  This is just– ugh.”  

He cut himself off, as his phone beeped insistently, the screen flashing brightly that Jack had sent him a picture.  “I don’t have any idea what this is going to be… Hopefully not too gory.”

 

…

 

The conversation was over; Will would stay. Jack would most certainly insist on him coming to the crime scene right this instant if it was a Ripper kill. However, as Hannibal knew that this wasn’t the case, the doctor was now quite sure that the other male would head back to the guest room once he had seen the pictures Jack would send to his phone.

“Would it comfort you to know that I’ve been awake before Jack has called?” Yes, he had meant to drift back off and he wouldn’t have left the warm cocoon of his bed, but he hadn’t truly been woken up by the FBI agent. Besides, this wasn’t the most unpleasant incident that could have happened. They were still inside and cozy enough, he was allowed to witness Will at perhaps his most vulnerable, so dead tired that he even refused to make his way to a scene when Jack wanted him to. “Believe me when I say that I’m neither irate nor peevish, Will, because of this.”

Hannibal wouldn’t exactly call this a bothering night.

“Surely not the most appropriate thing to look at right before heading back to bed, even if it proves to be not as bloody as it could be.” The psychiatrist mused, head tipping to the side a tad. Hannibal was interested, and didn’t attempt to hide that. The man pushed off the counter and crossed the room, approaching the other. If Will wanted to show him what he was looking at, then the doctor would give him the invitation to.

Perhaps this culprit would manage to gain his attention.

 

…

 

“Thanks.. You’re a better friend than I deserve.”  Will admitted with a half smile, some of the guilt, at least, easing from the weight still dragging around his neck.  He was tense, and annoyed, and tired beyond the point of endurance…

But at least, after this, he could sleep.

For a moment Will seriously considered turning his phone; after all, as Hannibal had said, it _wasn’t_ the sort of thing that lead to pretty dreams.  But the good doctor was a grown man, he decided after a long, drawn second of hesitation.  And so he simply dragged his thumb across the screen, an image (the first of half a dozen) leaping into all too vivid, pixelated life.

Will didn’t need empathy to know that this wasn’t the Ripper.  The scene was a bloodbath, a young woman ( _she had been pretty once, and he had loved her desperately_ ) laid out on a heavy, stone picnic table ( _he had wanted to do her justice.  But he was so new to this)_ , her ribcage shattered along the breastbone, and split open _(she had left, his Goddess.  Given her heart to another.  So he had taken it back)_.

Turning the phone slightly, Will examined the crime scene calmly, exhaling a slow breath through his teeth.  “This is all wrong.. A Ripper fanboy with none of the skill.  If it’s his first kill, he’ll do it again.. There’s a lot of promise there.  But he was angry this time..”  His voice was soft, a touch too vague; only half present in the kitchen.

“But definitely not the Ripper.  Just someone inspired by his style… What do you think, Doctor?”

 

…

 

“You deserve what you want, Will,” the older male responded, and he meant it, gazing at Will for a long moment. He deserved rest, he deserved a good friend. He deserved to understand that it wasn’t his fate to fear. Yet Will’s self contempt was too great, still, for him to see this. Hannibal would continue to assure him, in every possible way.

The other man allowed him to cast a glance at the pictures Jack had sent and they were both looking through them, silently, thoughtfully. Hannibal found that he wasn’t as interested as he could have been; this was—dilettante. Probably someone very young, a boy, who had never done such an act before and hadn’t put enough thought into it, now. If he weren’t above it the man might roll his eyes.

Hannibal was nearly cheerful, but definitely enthusiastic, when Will asked for his opinion.

“I see a young male who believes that he has found the greatest pain on Earth. He believes that his heart is broken because he couldn’t have hers, as she didn’t want to give it to him. He’s—wrathful, not only with his victim but surely also with himself. For being so incapable of being better, of being the person she wanted. For not knowing how to recreate the tableau of someone who he isn’t. This isn’t something the Ripper would do.” The psychiatrist agreed.

“Perhaps he’ll make another attempt, find another love. Repeat what he’s done if it is another failure. Or perhaps he’ll exact vengeance on the very person who had made him seem so small in comparison. What do you think will happen, Will?”

 

…

 

Sitting in the kitchen in the middle of the night, the scent of coffee in the air; both men in their pajamas, and the wind howling against the window?  It was almost domestic, and Will allowed himself an instant of amusement in the notion.  Clearly, he added to himself, he had been awake for far too long.

“The Ripper knows who he is.  He has a style, a…taste.  Everything feels deliberate, even when he’s experimenting.  The musical one yesterday, for example.  It’s what he intended, but I’m not sure he was entirely satisfied with the result.  This killer is still learning.”

He nodded slightly, the complete lack of surprise in his voice betraying the fact that his mind had been travelling on parallel rails to Hannibal’s.  Quietly he smoothed his thumb along the side of the phone, tracing the outline of the woman’s cheek in the photograph.  “She _was_ the woman he loved.  He isn’t looking at abstraction– not yet– but he will.”

Shifting slightly, some of his exhaustion bleeding away, Will made himself more comfortable in his chair; a few stray, wild curls brushing Hannibal’s arm as he leaned over to look at the screen.  “If he can get his anger under control, he’ll be someone we have to worry about.  He didn’t just murder this girl, he sacrificed her– it’s juvenile, but he’s young.  If he can find someone, another girl, similar, to love him?  Then he’ll feel redeemed.’

“If not, he’ll kill her, just like this one.  And that’s going to become a habit.”

 

…

 

It was—cozy. Homey, in a way, maybe. Will wasn’t an intruder in this house, and so the doctor would be content to know that he didn’t feel like one, even if his lack of sleep might play a role in that.

Hannibal gave the other an inquisitive glance. “It is natural for all beings to learn by attempting to imitate. All infants do it with parents and peers alike. Young animals will do the same. Sooner or later, he’ll find his own direction or he won’t.” It would certainly be easier to catch him before he grows surer of himself, before he gets better at what he does. Even though Hannibal wasn’t entirely convinced that this would be the case to begin with.

“What makes you wonder if the Ripper was complacent with his last tableau, Will?”

The doctor couldn’t not ask. His coffee was nearly finished and they would return to their rooms shortly; they wouldn’t allow this debate to grow too long despite the curiosity and comfortable atmosphere. Hannibal gave no obvious reaction when the other man shifted, as though he hadn’t noticed, though bent just a tad further when looking at the screen of Will’s phone.

“It’s a matter of time and fluke, then. It all depends on whom he’ll encounter next. However, I do believe that he won’t rush. He must have tried to win this woman over for quite a while.” If the psychiatrist was guessing right then they had been friends; she had seen but that in him, he had wanted her love. Now, their culprit would try to find someone just like her, would try to win her heart. That would give the FBI time to catch him.

Jack would surely demand more answers the next day; though he also got his teeth too deep into the Ripper case to not command Will about this, as well.

 

…

 

“No… not complacent, I wouldn’t say that.  It’s just… Like any new art form, it’s unrefined.  And he has to decide if musical theory translates into blood and bone as well as he had hoped.”  

Lifting his phone, Will quickly penned an extremely brief message back to Jack, _Not the Ripper.  Goodnight._  Before he forgot entirely, and the other man took it upon himself to text back.  Or worse, to call again.  If there was one voice he didn’t want to hear again that night, it was Jack’s clipped, irate tone.

He didn’t need to see the crime scene photos anymore, either– so, with  decisive, heavy sigh, Will decided to tempt Fate, and shut off his phone entirely.  The screen flickered for a moment, as if warning him that this was unwise.. Before plunging into powerless darkness with a blank screen.

“I shouldn’t feel like a naughty schoolboy.”  He admitted with a deadpan smile that matched his flat, wry humour, “Tomorrow he’s going to want to know where I was, and what I was doing, and who with.  And that’s tomorrow.  I don’t want him trying to start that conversation tonight..”

“I’m tempted to tell him that I met a beautiful, dark haired woman, and we had a clandestine tryst.”   _Maybe with an Eastern European accent, and impeccable taste?_  The thought ran idly through the back of his mind, being being ruthlessly stomped on.

“But I don’t think he’d believe me.”

 

…

 

“Do you think he’ll kill like this again?” There was a golden thread, always. The other male could see it; yet it had been true when Will had once stated that the Ripper might never kill like this again. Was the musical theme important and right enough to repeat?

A moment later Will turned his phone off – he didn’t just switch it to silent, he turned it off completely – and they were probably both glad that Jack wouldn’t get the chance to call once more. One call had certainly been enough; there wasn’t more that Will could do about the new case in this second, anyway. The crime scene would wait for him until the next day.

Perhaps they would have to postpone their appointment a tad, though. It would take the other man a while to get there and analyze, and to get back. However, that wouldn’t be much of an issue.

“No privacy permitted to an FBI implement, is there.” The doctor mused idly. “He might assume that you’re talking about a dark-furred canine.” Hannibal tilted his head to the side, a small hint of humor laced through his voice. “Or Dr. Bloom, perhaps.”

As the psychiatrist had finished his coffee he went to place his empty mug into the sink. He knew it would bother him later; Hannibal waited for the other man to empty his cup, as well, so he could quickly tend to them both before heading back to bed. Seeing used dishes first thing in the morning was simply unpleasant. “Would you like to return to your room, Will?”

 

…

 

Sometimes Will felt like two people in the same skull; the man he showed to the rest of the world, and the _other_.  The one that used to whisper his interest in the crime scenes that Will investigated.. And who, over the last few months, had stopped feeling like a stranger in his own psyche.  

Turning his phone quietly in his fingers, Will’s pale blue eyes drifted half closed; looking into the middle distance behind his eyelids as he recalled the scene.  It was impossible to look at the Ripper’s work dispassionately, he had learned– where Jack saw a kill count, a rising tide of bodies, Will increasingly felt like he was being drawn into a very one-sided conversation.

And it made the answer come so very easily.

“I guess that depends on whether he gets the reaction he wants.  He’s not doing this for his own amusement anymore; he has an audience.”  Will’s voice was soft, only vaguely aware of the good doctor sliding the empty mug from his loose fingers.  

This was a bad idea, the voice of his better judgement whispered insistently.  It was not the path to restful sleep, or pleasant dreams.  

Luckily, Hannibal’s comment snapped him from his reverie.  

Giving his head a brisk shake, messy curls glancing off a flushed cheek, Will pushed himself to his feet.  The hems of Hannibal’s loaned, charcoal coloured pants long since unfolded, and draping around his feet as he turned towards the door.  “Alana?  Ahh.. I think you’ve got the wrong man there, Dr. Lecter.”  He chuckled faintly, dragging a hand roughly across his sleep gritty eyes.

“I probably should try to sleep.. You’re right.. I mean, what are the odds that a nightmare will come back twice in the same night?  Even my subconscious has to be more generous than that.”

 

…

 

There weren’t two different people within Will’s mind; it was all him. Different—aspects, different versions of himself, though they were all true. It wasn’t any less real simply because it seemed  inconsistent. Human beings were never either black or white; it wasn’t that easy. The doctor could see both his light and his darkness, the best and the worst in him, even if he wouldn’t call it that. Will needed to embrace his nature and accept his facets. This was what he was meant to be, after all.

“If he’ll receive a desired reaction at all. Jack will react, Miss Lounds will most certainly answer the call, in her own way. But will the person the Ripper wishes to converse with get in touch with him?”

Yes.

Unknowingly, unintentionally, but it would happen nevertheless. Was already happening right now. Will would understand without truly understanding, not yet. At times, Hannibal wondered how long it would take, and what the consequences would be. It was such a contradictory urge, wanting to reveal oneself to someone who would comprehend while also wishing to remain in control, to not have to trust.

It was no secret to the psychiatrist that Dr. Bloom was interested in Will, and not only professionally so. It was a soft, gentle sort of affection and curiosity, one she didn’t want to allow herself to act upon, because she knew that it wouldn’t be what she wanted it to be. She was warmth; it was no surprise that the other male felt drawn to her in return.

“Should it come back regardless, then remember what I have told you, Will.” The older man casted an expectant glance at him. Hannibal moved to push up the sleeves of his sweater before he turned the faucet on and fetched a sponge. “Have a restful night, then.”

 

…

 

“I’m not sure.. But for the Ripper’s sake, I hope so.  He’s putting a lot of effort into trying to get someone’s attention, and I feel sorry that I’m the only person that seems to be giving his work the appreciation it deserves.”

In the middle of the night, tired and fed, and with the promise that he wasn’t going to be dragged out into the snow, Will was less conscious of the meaning in his words.  And what sort of betraying angles the brilliant psychiatrist would be able to discern from them.

Sometimes, it felt like Hannibal saw him with a sort of brutal honesty– the sort that made him feel..

Mm, well, it was late.  And the warm blanket called.  Will reminded himself firmly, shelving the half formed thoughts in a dark corner, where he hoped they would let themselves be covered in dust and mental cobwebs.  Better for everyone, that way.

“I haven’t forgotten…”  He trailed off, pausing in the doorway.  Absently he tapped his fingers on the smooth wooden frame, beating out a quiet, simple rhythm, “But I think waking you up once is more than enough for tonight.”

“Cross your fingers and we can just hope that my mind doesn’t hate me tonight.”  Lifting his hand, Will made a show of folding his fingers together, offering a wan smile before he headed upstairs.  

His brain always hated him, who was he trying to fool?

 

…

 

Appreciation.

Not horror. Not attention. Not concentration. There were many words Will could have used, to tell that it was his duty to look, that he was seeing the tableau, the message, even if he had trouble understanding it. That he was the only person who could try to comprehend, but that he found what he saw to be ugly; true evil. But the man had chosen to say this. He had chosen to describe it as one would describe art. It deserved appreciation.

Hannibal didn’t comment on it; the doctor didn’t wish to question it. Were he to say something he might scare off that part of Will that the other man tried to hide, and was now beginning to show him.

The other needed to see that what the psychiatrist could offer – was offering – was absolute acceptance. There was not a single thing that could put Hannibal off, as long as it was real.  The older man didn’t like when someone attempted to deceive like this, be it him or themselves.

Any truth would be met with approval.

Appreciation.

The doctor gave a curt nod. “I hope so.”

However, they both knew that it was quite unlikely that Will would sleep through the night without any trouble. It might happen, it wasn’t impossible, though the psychiatrist didn’t exactly expect it. Whether or not he wanted to, Will would wake him, Hannibal was certain. Perhaps not intentionally, but he didn’t think he would sleep through one of the other’s nightmares.

After their mugs were taken care of, the kitchen looking completely pristine once again, the older man made his way back to his bedroom.


	4. Intermezzo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a morning, and a long afternoon.

_**Intermezzo: Short movement or interlude connecting the main parts of the composition.** _

 

They were smart men, educated men.  But they were not, in fact, omniscient.  And despite their best guessed, it seemed that Lady Luck had played them a very different card.

Dawn broke over the white blanketed city; pale morning light reflecting of a million tiny, icy crystal facets in the snow.  The streets were damp, and the wind was properly bitter as it lashed drifts of snow from rooftops, and scuttled deeper grey clouds across the horizon.  Promising more snow, and more inclement weather.

Winter, it seemed, had finally come to Baltimore.

With his phone shut off, Will had to alarm to drag him from the first properly restful sleep he had had in months.  There were no dogs howling at the door, or Jack’s texts disturbing him.  

And so they slept, blissfully unaware that the sunrise had come (and gone), until the alarm clock on Hannibal’s bedside table alerted both men to the hour.

Instead of jolting away, Will’s mind slowly dragged itself up through the sleepy mire, lifting a hand to try and scrub the gritty sleep from the corners of his eyes.  In little bits the world started to reassert itself, the clarity of a good night's’ rest snuggled around him like a blanket.

There had been no nightmares. No dreams at all.  And Will couldn’t even begin to process that simple truth.  

Rising from the tempting blankets, Will quickly dressed in his clothes from the day before (though now, freshly cleaned while they’d eaten dinner, they didn’t feel clammy and damp) before heading downstairs.

For the first time in a very long while, he looked almost healthy.  The worst of the dark circles had faded, and while still pale, his skin had lost the greyish, sallow hue it had started to sport.  His curls stuck out at the strangest angles, and there were still pillow creased on his cheek.. But he seemed more aware, more capable of facing the rest of the day.

Serial killer musicians, and all.

 

…

 

The psychiatrist’s eyes opened slowly, nearly idly, when his alarm clock began ringing. A moment later Hannibal was awake and alert, and he shifted to shut off the piercing noise before moving to the edge of the bed, running fingers through uncombed hair.

In a very peculiar way, this rather quiet night was both a relief and a disappointment. It had been uneventful, after Will had chosen to turn off his phone. No more calls, no nightmares the doctor had noticed—no, the other man had slept peacefully, unless he had managed to wake without alerting the psychiatrist, which was quite unlikely but perhaps not impossible. Hannibal was still more than curious about Will’s dreams, his sleepwalking. However, the man was also pleased that the other had found rest, apparently. Not only because he wouldn’t wish for the other to be dazed and exhausted, definitely not today at that, but also because it had been in his home that Will’s mind had been at ease enough to allow him calm.

Hannibal took slightly longer than Will before he made his way downstairs. He was showered and properly dressed, hair brushed back, when he entered the kitchen. If he had made the other man wait longer, then he would certainly have apologized.

“Good morning, Will.” The older male inclined his head a tad. “I shall begin preparations for breakfast right away. May I ask if you’ve slept well?” The silence at night and Will’s appearance this morning were rather good indicators that this had been the case, though Hannibal wanted to ask, anyway. His tone of voice was interested, soft, as to not make the other think he might disapprove if Will hadn’t slept well at all and hadn’t let him know, how Hannibal had offered.

Crossing the room, the doctor headed towards the fridge. He seemed to hesitate for but a moment, before he glanced at the other over his shoulder. “Would you like to assist me? I, of course, wouldn’t mind if you would rather not.”

 

…

 

“Surprisingly well, actually.  I expected to be up a few more times, and instead I slept right through.  I’m going to have to turn off my phone more often.”  In the early morning light, Hannibal looked far less intimidating than he usually did at his office.  

Here, the light was different– diffuse– the cozier confines of the kitchen seeming more intimate, almost domestic; compared to the very formal office.  And even though Hannibal was still very much _Hannibal_ (for lack of better word, he thought with amusement.  The man was clearly in a descriptive league of his own) even he seemed a little less starched.

Will didn’t generally eat breakfast.  It was usually a brackish cup of coffee on his way out the door– but the side effect of actually sleeping, was that he had become rather aware of just how hungry he was!

“Sure, I can help..  Then I’ll get myself straightened up, and head down to the office.  Before Jack absolutely loses it.”  Waiting for some instruction, he added, “What time did you want me to come by tonight?  I mean, if you were still willing to explain music to me.”

 

…

 

“I’d suggest so, seeing that it was so successful. I’m glad that you have slept well, Will.” Whether or not the other male would truly go through with it certainly was a different matter, though the thought was there, and Hannibal wouldn’t discourage him. It was as he had said before – he didn’t care about the lives Will saved, he cared about Will’s life.

Sleep softened most people, didn’t it? It was only natural that sharing breakfast with someone seemed more personal than having them over for dinner. However, breakfast was an important meal, something one shouldn’t forgo before leaving the house. It could improve one’s whole day.

And the doctor honestly wouldn’t mind at all if Will came to associate his house with a warm bed that led to restful sleep, and good meals.

“Jack may not have slept so well.” the psychiatrist mused, thoughtful but not reproachful, not in the slightest. The FBI agent needed to understand that pressure didn’t always brought one to one’s goal.

“Of course. Perhaps our usual time would be best, if that is alright with you?” The older man had considered something sooner, before, though with this new case being in the room Will would certainly take longer. Jack wouldn’t let him leave so early. “Could you cut four slices of bread for us?” Asking, Hannibal pointed towards the loaf with his gaze before glancing back to the other man, already opening the fridge to fetch the butter.

 

…

 

Two decent meals and a night of relatively restful sleep had gone a long way to restoring Will’s equilibrium.  But even they were thin armor against a day spent outside in the sleeting cold; the slushy snow escaping down the collar of his too-light jacket, and soaking through the soles of his shoes.  And rest did nothing to ward off his colleagues bored speculation about where he had spent the night before.

By the time the evening rolled around, Will was only too happy to escape FBI headquarters.

It was funny, he mused as he jogged up the slippery steps, how in a few short months, Hannibal’s office had turned from an intimidating space, to a safe one.  Shuffling the file for the Ripper’s latest kill under his arm, Will shrugged off his wet jacket, draping it on the coat rack in the outer waiting room.  He was damp through, but at least, he rationalized, it was better than dripping!

Not wanting to interrupt if he were in with another patient, Will lightly tapped on the door, before taking his usual seat outside, half opening the file and taking a look down at the photos.  After all, he was quite a bit earlier than intended, and Hannibal was probably busy.

 _Music.. music…_   He turned the word over in his head,  trying to clear out the debris of the other crimes.  Of his coworkers.  Of anything else, save for what must have been running through the Ripper’s mind as he imagined this project taking shape

Heaving a sigh, Will fished out the bottle of aspirin from his pocket, swallowing three of them dry, in a futile attempt to stave off a migraine.  Music.


	5. Tessitura

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which they talk of music and murder.

_**Tessitura: The range of an instrument or vocal part.** _

 

It might have been a rather dull day – though none of his patients knew, as the psychiatrist listened attentively to each and every one of them – if Hannibal hadn’t been looking forward to this meeting so much. It would be an understatement to claim that this would be interesting; Will didn’t know how much this would please him.

And Hannibal knew exactly how he wanted to go about this. Of course, as always, he would be able to adapt if that was what the other required of him. However, a plan was set for now.

The doctor was alone in his office when he heard the quiet tap at his door. Will arrived earlier than planned, though that truly wasn’t much of an issue. The psychiatrist wasn’t busy; everything was ready and prepared for today’s session, if one could even call it that. The more time they had, the better. Hannibal certainly hoped that the other man’s patience wasn’t running thin already. A day at work was easily capable of ruining the effects of a good night’s sleep. Hopefully this wasn’t what had happened to Will, before he had made his way to the office.

He crossed the room and went to open the door. A welcoming smile tilted up the edges of his mouth as he saw Will sitting in the waiting room. “Hello, Will. Please, come in.” Stepping to the side, he allowed the other man to enter.

Hannibal had rearranged; furniture had been moved. There was a piano, standing where his desk usually would. Soft light illuminated the room, enough so they could easily see the keys of the instrument without trouble. Their chairs remained in their normal places. “You may sit where you see fit, for now.”

No questions about his day, about the new crime they had looked at together, the night before. This would only create a mindset neither of them needed right now.

 

…

 

The was no music in the file in his lap.  Only images– still and static, the melody silenced in the frozen frames.  Slowly Will flipped through the photos, half reading the captions that he already knew by heart.

This was not how the Ripper had meant for this to be seen.

And so when Hannibal opened the door, Will spared a passing glance for the images in front of him.  And closed the folder.  

He was here to understand the beauty in the Ripper’s composition.  To hear the melody that he had tried to fashion from this new victim.  And that would never happen if he clung to the flawed images.  

On some level, Will had always known that eventually the Ripper would know better than he did.  That he would create something that forced the profiler to engage more directly with his work.  To change his own perspective– after all, wasn’t that the point?

“Thanks..”  He sighed, leaving the folder in the other room with his jacket.  “I’m sorry I’m so early.  It was either that, or Jack was going to drive me absolutely insane… More insane.”  He amended, looking around the office.

Talk about transformations…

It had always been an elegant space, but with the desk quietly replaced with a gleaming piano (and Will didn’t want to consider the amount of hassle that must have been.  One more thing to feel guilty about) it lent the vaulted room a very different air.

For an instant, Will looked back at their chairs; familiar and framed against the far side of the room.  That was a space, he thought, for delving into what he already knew.  And with a sigh, he crossed towards the piano; slowly rubbing his hands over his damp shirt to chase away the chilled goosebumps.

“I was thinking about it tonight.. The Ripper, his music.  Do you think his audience- the person he’s trying to impress.. Knows music?  A fellow, ah, musician?  Or someone like me?  Who enjoys _listening_ to music, but doesn’t actually know any of the theory of it?”

Light fingers drifted over the glossy black and white keys, without the pressure needed to stir noise from it.

Shaking his head, Will smiled self deprecatingly, tucking his hands back against his sides.  “Sorry, I’m rambling.  I guess I was just thinking that, if his audience was like me?  He’d be very jealous of you right now.”

 

…

 

“It is not an issue at all, Will. You didn’t disrupt,” the psychiatrist responded truthfully, closing the door behind the other man. Will’s words let him know that it had been a rough day; that wasn’t a surprise. Certainly he would ask the other about it, later. While Hannibal wasn’t all too curious about the new killer, it would still be a pleasure to discuss this with Will. “Would you wish for me to fetch you a blanket?” Hannibal noted the other’s gestures, his wanting to grow warmer. He could assist in that – it wouldn’t interfere with their session.

The older male gave small, apparently pondering tilt of his head.

“The Ripper is reaching out to someone who he knows can understand. However, perhaps not in the sense of being a musician, themselves.” No, the Ripper wasn’t reaching out to someone who understood the theory of music; notes and measures. Theoretical knowledge was an important factor, yet it wasn’t enough to create something beautiful.

Will approached the instrument, though didn’t attempt to play. Didn’t touch enough to cause a sound.

“Yes, I believe so, too.” Hannibal agreed contentedly. “I am getting to show you something he wants his audience to see. And I must admit I am quite pleased, myself, that I shall share this with you.” The doctor went to sit before the piano, entirely at home on its bench, hands on his thighs still but clearly wishing to reach for the keys.

He gave a little, brief glance to the bench, to his side; inviting Will to sit with him, closely, as though they were about to play together. If he was lucky then this was exactly what would happen.

“Shall I play something for you?” The first step; demonstrating, creating the right mindset. Hannibal pressed the first key before Will could answer. “Tell me, Will. What melody did the Ripper hear, in the halls of his mind, when he did this? When he sent his message?” Which mood was he supposed to set, for this? He knew what had been the intention—however, had Will listened closely enough?

 

…

 

_Tick tock… Tick… Tock…_

_Shall I play something for you?_

_Drip… Drip…_

_What melody did the Ripper hear?_

_Splash._

In the quiet of the office, Will closed his eyes, letting the good doctor’s question- the sound of his voice, the timbre and the measure of it- seep through the weary corridors of his mind.  It echoed down empty halls, mingling with the memories of the morning moisture collecting in the cold hollows of the Ripper’s latest victim. Following the rhythmic tick-tock of the pendulum in his brain.

Like a discordant note in a familiar song, Will furrowed his brow; his curly head canting faintly to the side, as if he could hear the wrongness that filtered through his thoughts.

“I keep…”  

He murmured, taking the seat beside the other man, his slight weight sinking onto the bench with a rustle of damp cloth, and the pop of over strained ligaments.

“Whenever I picture the scene.. His _work_ … I’m always hours too late.  The body is cold, the blood is still; it’s not meant to be that way.  He wants his music to be a living thing. A…  A feeling that lingers, even after the music is done.  And I’m looking at it like a dead thing.”

Like the tumblers in a lock sliding into place, an almost audible click in his mind, Will felt some of the tension release from his shoulders.  A weight he hadn’t even realized he was carrying, suddenly eased.

“What music did he hear…?”

It was less of a question, and more of a murmur; the words prickling under his skin.  Though his blue eyes were turned to the keys, Will’s mind had stepped aside; seeing blood, red and flowing, where before there had been only static.  Cold and coagulating on the pavement.

“He wants it to be happy.”  He said after a long moment, trying to ignore the prickling sensation in his chest.  “He wants it to be a.. A celebration.  But it isn’t working.  I thought that it was the whole method that he wasn’t sure about– but I was wrong.  It’s not the instrument, it’s the _music_.  It’s not what he wants.”

Will’s voice continued, faster now across his lips as he voiced the path of his thoughts.

“How _frustrated_ he must be.  After all these years, all those people, and suddenly someone has walked into his life.  And suddenly, everything is different and—– _dammit,_ Hannibal, it’s someone he sees every day.  This isn’t some vague affection, some… fucking unattainable woman he’s never actually met.’

“He wanted the music to say everything he can’t.  Everything he’s choking on.   _Christ…_  So he starts the music with some intention..  Some design.  Because he’s thought it all out.  But when he actually hears it, it isn’t _right_.  It’s–”

Will trailed off, realizing with belated mortification how tightly his fingers were grabbing the edge of the bench, and how hard his heart was hammering in the hollow behind his ribs. Flushing, he ducked his head, dragging a hand roughly, perhaps too much, through his hair.

“Err… Sorry.  I got a bit… I’m.. Sure whatever you want to play is fine.”

 

…

 

“You hear, like this, merely the repeating, rough sound of a record that has already reached its end.” And that was, truly, not what any musician intended. However, if anything then Hannibal felt encouraged by the other’s words, instead of put off. This was an opportunity to not just send a message and know it had been read, but to experience it, together. “We will change that.” And Hannibal did feel as confident as he sounded.

The doctor shifted some, straightening his back, and finally touched his fingertips to the keys, making the instrument sing. Music swiftly filled the office. He wasn’t composing, not yet; merely showing what had already been created before this moment. It was a heavy, proud piece – Verdi’s Triumphal March from Aida, not one of his own, for now. They would get to that later, he was sure.

Yes, he had wanted it to be happy. He still did, he still could achieve so, yet it had sounded perfect but hollow in his ears once it had been done.

“What did he want to celebrate, Will?”

There were so many options, weren’t there? Had the Ripper wished to celebrate that he had found a new victim? Himself, the killer? Life and its pleasures? It was no mockery; the music hadn’t been supposed to be happy to taunt the FBI and its exhausted agents, who were the only ones paying attention to the Ripper’s work, as Will had worded it the evening before. That hadn’t been the intention. The Ripper had taken his trophies, and the motive had been similar. But the method wasn’t. This hadn’t been done to humiliate the victim.

The melody changed a tad when Will spoke again, a little slower, less haughty. Not what the Ripper had had in mind.

“Why can’t he say?”

The tone of his voice had grown softer. Hannibal was still curious, more than anything, but there was also a small pang of something. “Is he afraid of what would happen?

The other man was affected; even if he couldn’t entirely say what about the piece had been wrong, he must feel it, clutching at the bench until his knuckles turned white, muscles tense, heart beating quickly. The psychiatrist ignored both the flush on the other’s face and his apology; he wanted Will to say whatever he found out, describe every little feeling caused by the kill and this lesson. The other man cutting himself off just wouldn’t do.

 

…

 

From the moment Hannibal’s fingers touched the keys, Will could feel the vibration of the music.  The deep bass notes that hummed like a drone of a bee through the wooden body of the piano, seeping into the floor and up through the soles of his feet.  The sprightly high keys that seemed almost tangible in the air, as though he could catch them in his hands to feel the not-weight of them in his palms.

 _This_ , he thought, his fingers flexing against the edge of the bench, _was what the Ripper had felt._ The notes were wrong, but the sensation was there; alive and physical.  He could feel this music, as he never could with recorded playing.

“He wanted to celebrate..”  Will closed his eyes, listening to the music; and then realizing the heavy melody was simply _wrong_.  In a way he couldn’t quite explain, his meaning falling into the cracks of his inexperience.  But it was wrong, that much he knew.

“His hopes. For himself, and for them.  He has plans, but…  Hannibal, this song is really wrong.”

Will cut himself off, shaking his head slightly, as he tried to encourage the little fragments of thoughts to fall neatly into his thoughts.  “I mean, it’s amazing, but– this is the sort of music that puts people on pedestals.  It’s like something that needs an orchestra?  Maybe?  It’s too big.’

“We’re not looking for a…”  It’s the wrong sort of happy.  This needs an audience.  All, um, public?  I guess?  The Ripper is looking for.. Intimacy.”  Will swallowed hard at the word, a strange feeling rolling down the vertebrae in his spine, and making him sit up straighter.

“Aren’t we all afraid in love, Hannibal?  The Ripper just has _so much_ more to lose.  Maybe he had started to believe his own profile; assuming that he just _wasn’t able_ to love the way the other people did.  And suddenly there is this presence in his life.  And it’s under his skin, and he can’t exorcise it.’

“But he can’t just declare himself openly, either.  Because.. This person… Isn’t separate from his crimes.  He doesn’t want them to just see the.. the outside.  Which all sounds very romantic, but the Ripper is more than capable of lashing out.  Violently.  If the subject of his affection hurts him.  Because.. They can.”

Will’s expression faltered, the prickling in his chest becoming a sharp jab, as though he had been run through with a sewing needle.  “It’s almost like, if he plays his cards right– sets up the right scenes, with the right messages, lures them closer… If they come to him, then he doesn’t have to acknowledge that this is a vulnerability.”

 

…

 

Hannibal stopped in his tracks as soon as the words had left the man’s lips. The last tone lingered for just a moment longer, before the room was silent and the doctor dipped his head. “My apologies.” That had been the wrong mood—this wasn’t something the Ripper wanted to flaunt. It was no dirty secret, either, but private, just for himself.

Intimate.

“It is meant to be played by an orchestra indeed. You do have more understanding of this than you might believe, Will.”

The doctor tilted his head to the side thoughtfully, entertaining the idea for a brief moment. Did the Ripper think he just wasn’t capable of love, and now didn’t know how to handle the situation? “Or perhaps he has not found someone worth his affection up until now. Does he want to be rid of this existence that managed to rattle him so thoroughly, to the bone?”

Would this have formed an angrier melody, perhaps?

“He must believe to see this person clearly, for feeling such affection. Tell me, Will, are you of the opinion that a sadistic psychopath could muster such empathy?”

After uttering this response, the older male began another song, something less heavy, though still not something he had written himself. He had been allowed to hear it, many years before, as an acquaintance had composed it.

“They aren’t separate, yet they are not part of the crimes, either. The Ripper wants to change this, with his message.” A questioning tilt to the sentence as Hannibal glanced at the other man from the corners of his eyes. “If he is too blunt in his intentions to let them see, they would not comprehend.” They would see blood and gore and horror. “He doesn’t try to lure another killer, then. Not someone who would understand right away,” Hannibal offered.

“He avoids weakness by weakening the other. Unless his efforts will go to waste, no matter how much he tries.”

 

…

 

“No, I’m sorry.. I’m.. Probably not explaining this very well.”  Will fished off his glasses, the frame dangling loosely from his fingers as he pressed the heels of his hands firmly against his eyes.  He could feel the tension behind the socket, threatening to spread into an aching migraine.

Distractedly he jabbed the glasses back into place; tablets rattling dryly as he retrieved the familiar bottle of cheap painkillers from his pocket.  “I think he knows how to handle the _situation_.  If it were anyone else, he’d be done this already.  Which means that this.. person.  It’s different.  Or complicated.”

His eyes fixed on his hands, mainly to avoid looking over at the other man, Will shook three of the pressed powder tablets into his palm; swallowing hard for a moment as they threatened to stick in his throat.  

The next song resonated better.  Not right.  But better.  Like another man’s interpretation of a dream; they could understand the symbols and the sights, but never truly comprehend the depth of it.

“He has the potential to be a sadist.  But most of his mutilation occurs post mortem.” Will corrected him offhandedly, “And calling him a psychopath is.. It’s too blunt.  You can’t dissect him with clumsy terms like that…’

“But, ah, yes.  To answer your question.”  

Will’s words stumbled as he tried to pull himself back to the present; watching Hannibal’s fingers as they moved across the keys.  He had, Will was reminded, truly beautiful hands.

“I think he’s absolutely capable of love and empathy.  Maybe he doesn’t feel them as television tells us we should– I don’t think his love is a happy, innocent thing.  But that doesn’t make it any less _real_ , either.  He understands that his subject.. His.. beloved.”  

He stopped, running the word over his lips a few times, before nodding to himself.  It fit.  “And it is.  This isn’t a target or a mark.  Anyway, that he or she won’t understand immediately.  And instead of getting angry, the Ripper has, time and time again now, tried to teach them.  That’s not psychopathic behaviour.”

 

…

 

Despite their conversation, the doctor remained calm. Intrigued, obviously so, yes. But not on edge. He listened carefully – though he always did – soaking up Will’s words, tasting them on his own tongue.

If Hannibal knew that the other took more of those painkillers than he would approve of then he might say something; like this, the doctor within him was still not very pleased at catching sight of this cheap medicine, but he let it go. Another restful night was in order, to make Will feel better. However, the psychiatrist wasn’t certain how easily the other man would be convinced to stay yet another night. Perhaps he could find a different way to help, later.

“It is what professionals seem to file him under,” Hannibal pointed out. It hadn’t been his words, after all; he was merely repeating what had already been uttered. “Psychopaths are described as humans who lack empathy, social responsibility, and morality. I suppose if the Ripper was all this, he would have been caught at this point.”

The older man had the feeling that Jack wouldn’t be truly willing to accept this analysis – the Ripper killing to send a message to a loved one, to someone he cared about, because it was, for now, the only way for him to communicate his affection. “There is darkness and violence. The sort of romance that brings the world to ruin. But it is pure nevertheless.”

It was real and it was tangible, and Will had seen it. He had looked at the murder tableau and had seen love. How entirely unique the other man was.

“He wants to be understood more than he wants to do harm. He must have faith that his beloved will comprehend, sometime. How agonizing it would be, to try only to see that it has been impossible right from the start.” Which meant that he saw something in this person that resonated with his own nature.

When the song came to an end, Hannibal offered a small smile.

“I believe this song has not been what you were looking for, either.”

 

…

 

On some level, Will understood how the spectre of the Ripper had invaded all the corners of Jack’s life.  Propelling him forward like a man obsessed, driven by the knowledge that, if he could only be just a little bit smarter.. Then the man would never be able to kill again.

For Jack, the Ripper was a distant thing.  Perpetually out of reach.  And that was the torment of it.  

It was the sort of problem that Will almost envied him.  For the profiler, the serial killer seemed _too close_.  As though he could reach out, maybe just passed the good doctor’s figure beside him on the bench, and touch him.  Maybe even closer than that.  

“We both know that blunt psychological umbrellas aren’t going to help us understand this man, Hannibal.  He’s the one holding all the cards here, or, he was.  Until he started turning his crime scenes into sonnets, instead of installations for his own amusement.’

“I wonder if his target audience has any idea how much danger they are in.  He could be sitting right there with them, looking of their shoulder.  And I don’t think anyone would know.”

In the dim light, Will watched Hannibal’s hands slide over the keys; summoning a beautiful melody from the gleaming instrument.  His sleeve rustling against Will’s as he reached for the notes at the deep, bass end of the spectrum; and Will could feel the vibration as it hummed through the piano, through the floor.  Tangible, like a heart attack, as it twisted with _not quite_ frustration in his chest.

“No, it’s not what I’m thinking in my head.  I think it’s… closer, to what he wanted. But like I said, what he intends, and what actually resonates, are two different things.”  Impulsively, Will raised a hand to the keys, letting Hannibal’s melody fade into stillness.

“I’m not sure if it makes me a hopeless romantic, or a jaded realist, but I’m not sure it’s as impossible as people would think.”  Looking at his own hands; smaller, and clumsy compared to the surgeon’s incredible grace, Will pressed down on a key.

This time, the life and feel of it hummed under his fingers, a wavering note sliding into the space between them for half an instant, before fading.

“If they could only see his work the way that I do.”

 

…

 

Jack was not ignorant; he was no fool, he was blind. The pieces were right before his eyes, yet he was unable to put them together. It was the wrong approach. And he wasn’t the person the Ripper wanted to lure.

“He allows himself to lose part of his crime’s nature. Suddenly, there is something in his tableau that could be considered a motive. He wants them to know. It is only a matter of time, now.“ Without a tangible reason for his kills – other than disapproving mockery – it was nearly impossible to catch the Ripper. There had never been a real connection between the victims and the man. Now, there was something one could grasp, something revealing, a piece of an altered puzzle. And of course that would make it easier to see.

Especially so when the person the Ripper wished to catch was an FBI agent. One who was so very capable to doing something unexpected, at that.

“And he’s hopeful that he doesn’t have to hurt them.”

The other male reached up, earning himself a questioningly but all too expectant glance from the doctor.

“So the Ripper might achieve what he wants, in the end. He might be capable of making them understand.” Hannibal reached out himself, then, to press the key right next to the one Will had pressed down on. A look of concentration settled on his face as his fingers wandered across the keys, slowly, before they came to a brief stop.

“What if they did?“ the psychiatrist asked until his finger found the very same key once more, repeating, and a melody formed beneath his hand. A song he knew by heart; one he had played through in his mind countless of times. Not one he had ever played on the piano. It carried a cheerful rhythm, even if it was both slower and slightly deeper than the last two pieces. And Hannibal’s brows knitted only a tad if he had to notice that even like this, it was lacking. “Could they love him back?“

 

…

 

_And what if they did?_

_Could they love him back?_

Will felt his chest tense; his lungs contracting violently and expelling a sharp breath from his lips.  Could anyone love a man like the Ripper?   _No_. He told himself flatly, his hands dropping to the bench with a slap, like audible punctuation.

Could anyone else see the beauty in his constructions?  The messages he penned so damn beautifully in veins and bones?  Would they accept him for the hideousness of his affection… Or would they blind themselves to the truth?

_You could love him._

With a jarringly abrupt, stumbling step, Will pushed himself away from the bench.  “Listen to me, talking about _love_ , as if I have any idea what it’s like!”  He laughed tensely, a sickly strained sound that resembled nothing like amusement or mirth.  Will’s hands migrated towards his chest, fingers wringing distractedly; flapping over his heart.

“Maybe I really have gone around the bend this time!  Here you are, trying to show me music, and I’m just rambling away like an idiot.  I’m sorry.”  He added, his blue eyes looking anywhere in the room but at the doctor.

There were holes in the Ripper’s methods these days; windows through the gore, to the man himself.

Someone charming enough to get by in the world, without attracting attention.

Older.. Refined tastes.  Someone who knew what they wanted. Who had experimented until they had turned murder into performance art.

The music in the background, Hannibal’s fingers over the keys– so _close_ to being right– How could he have known?   _Someone like…_

Someone with culinary skills.  Surgical dexterity.

Music.

_What are you thinking, Graham?  This is Hannibal Lecter!_

Will leaned forward, his hands dragging hard through his curls, feeling a few strands pop with a pinprick of hot pain.  “I-I..  I should go..”  He mumbled, hands flapping with agitation.  Shaking his head, he tried to dislodge the windows that were slowly aligning in his mind.

Inexorably drawing closer, framing the shape of something he didn’t want to see.

“No, nobody could love him.” He lied, forcing himself back a step, “They’d see the blood, and they’d drown in it.”


	6. Fifth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is confusion, and clarity.

**_Fifth: The interval between two notes._ **

 

Hannibal fell silent; he wouldn’t remark on any of the statements that hurriedly left Will’s mouth. His fingers stopped moving the moment the other male jumped up, putting distance between them. He noticed, with something akin to regret, that he had pushed too far. It had been too much. This question, he shouldn’t have asked. However, the doctor also didn’t wish to take it back.

He could guess half of what was running through Will’s mind. How his earlier words would haunt him; how he had found beauty in the Ripper’s murders and how he had admitted to it. Will’s suspicion about him was something he assumed would grow, with time, but he couldn’t tell how far the seed had developed, yet. It had been entirely risky to play a version of what he had imagined.

Nobody could love him.

It was not unpleasant because he believed Will’s words to be the truth. The older man knew a lie when he heard one; Will was fumbling for a reply, avoiding his gaze even more so than usually. The question had made him uncomfortable. No, Hannibal knew that the other was lying. But that didn’t change anything.

Will didn’t want it.

It wasn’t enough to crush the idea, the wish – this hindrance he had been aware of before, after all – but it felt as though the room grew cold in but a second. The warm, careful curiosity died, withered away, and unreadable calm took its place. The psychiatrist’s face was blank, courteous however, as he finally moved. The keys were slowly hidden beneath the lid with a soft click, and then Hannibal stood.

“It has grown rather late, as well. It is time for me to retire, also.”

Of course Hannibal wouldn’t usher the other man out; he didn’t suppose that Will was very intent on staying any longer, though if it was the case indeed then the psychiatrist wouldn’t comment on it. Yet the message was clear; Hannibal wouldn’t attempt to convince him otherwise.

“If you’d appreciate my assistance once more, another day, then I’ll gladly be of help.”

 

…

  
  


Franklyn’s body on the floor.   _ Tobias Budge _ .

Franklyn.

With a sinking, visceral memory, Will recalled dabbing the blood from Hannibal’s forehead; his own apologies, and the sinking guilt, when he had thought that Hannibal had been hurt because of  _ him _ .  Because he had dragged the other man into the Hell that was his life.

Hannibal, who had made sure he had slept.  Fed him.

_ Fed him _ .

Like the steady tick-tick-tick of the illuminated pendulum through his thoughts, Will saw the shape of the truth behind to congeal behind his eyelids.

God, he didn’t want it to be real.  He wanted to pinch himself and wake up in his own bed, surrounded by his dogs.  Half frozen because he had kicked the blankets off again.

He had  _ slept there _ .  Hannibal’s voice echoing in his mind, telling him to shut off his phone.. That Jack didn’t need him that night.  

Oh  _ God _ .  Why?  Of all the people in the fucking country, why did it have to be–

And how could he have  _ been so blind? _

If he left now, would he be just another tableau?  Someone who had gotten too close ( _ Miriam Lass _ , his traitorous mind supplied unhelpfully) and had stepped in the way of the Ripper’s plans?  

On some level, Will had always known that the psychopath was aware of him.  But until that moment, he had never felt directly threatened by him.

With a sick lurch, Will realized three things almost simultaneously.

First, that telling anyone would make him look insane.  

Second, that he was still standing in Dr. Lecter’s office.

And third..

That it didn’t matter where he was, because the man knew where he lived.

Will’s legs felt like they had been cut off at the knees as he stumbled backwards, coming up hard against the office door.  How many times had he guessed that the Ripper’s chosen audience was someone who had access to the case files?  Someone who could see the.. The  _ message _ in his work?

_ Alana. _

He had been so blind.

“Y-yeah.. Yeah, I think I’m going to call it a night.  Sleep well, Dr. Lecter.”  He said stiltedly, shuffling back into the waiting room.  It looked just the same as it had a few hours earlier.  His file on the chair, his jacket hanging by the wall.  Nothing changed; it seemed unfair. Like the outside world should reflect his own grieving horror.

Silently, Will sank down onto a waiting room chair, staring blankly at the floor in front of him.  Realizing that he didn’t know what to do, or where to go.   _ Maybe here is a fine enough place to die.  Saves him the trip. _

 

…

 

Hannibal wasn’t ashamed of who and what he was. He hadn’t told a single lie during their conversation – the Ripper wanted his beloved to know. He had sent a message for this reason, for him to truly understand. The doctor hadn’t known how and when it would happen. He had imagined it, a few times. How Will realized as he analyzed a crime scene, one of his own. How his dreams would nudge him into the right direction, how he would wake, cold sweat soaking through his sheets, wide eyes unseeing as his dogs whined in concern.

How Will understood while he was with him. Still standing in his office indeed.

Will would not die this evening. He made for a quick exit, as though he believed that the older man would chase him, but then he lost energy just a step later, tired, tense body sinking into the chair in the waiting room. As if he had given up. As if he thought that there was no point in running, when the Ripper could come and get him easily, just whenever he wanted to. Because yes, he knew where he lived. And no, the FBI wouldn’t believe him. They wouldn’t find any evidence. There was no proof for Will’s claim. Nothing. Nothing but the fact that Hannibal could cook and play the piano, and that he had worked as a surgeon before.

It wouldn’t be enough.

The psychiatrist wouldn’t admit to anything; there was no need. The other man was the only one who was supposed to know; Hannibal wouldn’t go to prison for this. Will knew without him ever saying a word.

Instead of making this a hunt, the doctor approached the other man slowly, not quite looking concerned, but certainly not looking unaffected. He couldn’t tell what exactly had done it, but he had gotten what he had wanted. Now he wasn’t sure if it would be the end of both of them.

“Will?”

Hannibal could pretend that he was oblivious – and perhaps that truly was the best choice. Pretend that he didn’t know what was wrong, implying that Will had gotten things mixed up, wrong, that he was mistaken. But then his message would have been for naught.

“Do you not wish to return home?”

 

…

 

For a long time, Will didn’t say anything at all.  He simply lapsed into a silence– not a strained one, but unnaturally still.  The proverbial rug had been yanked violently from under his feet, and Will could feel himself preparing for the painful collision to follow.

It was unavoidable.  

“And go where?”  He said quietly, after the weight of the words on his tongue had lingered so long that they began to taste sour.  “To do  _ what _ ?”  He added, his soft tones twisted into bitter resignation.

“We both know that nothing I could say would convince them.  They’d lock me up; say I was completely gone.  And who would blame them?  Or I can say nothing.. and… what?  Wait a few weeks, and wind up in the Ripper’s latest tableau.”

His laugh was short and sharp, a worn bark of mirthless amusement, “God…”  He muttered, his blue eyes still fixed on the pattern of the carpet, tracing the pattern in his line of sight.  “All this time.  No wonder you could tell me that the Ripper wasn’t going to be out last night..’

“So what happens now?”  He finally asked, forcing himself to try and look up at Hannibal– to see the monster behind the man he had thought was his friend.  But the revelation hadn’t changed him, just like it hadn’t changed the room around them.

In the privacy of his own mind, Will knew that the hot tension in his chest had less to do with the lives Hannibal had taken, or his own cursed blindness.. And more to do with the fact that it has been Hannibal who had blinded him.

“I don’t know the rules to the game you’re playing.  But I think you won.”

 

…

 

Outwardly, Hannibal was calm. The doctor didn’t push Will for an answer, for any reaction at all, and they both remained silent and still for a very long moment. Time the other could have used to run or inform Jack, if he didn’t know that it would lead him nowhere. What would he have done if he believed that there was a point? The unpleasant feeling in his guts seemed to swell further.

Inwardly, the older man was—uncertain. Just a tad too lost for it to be easily shrugged off.

“You could go home, Will.” An entirely possible option. If the Ripper would wish to kill Will right now, then he would. The other male had to see this. “And feed your dogs. Let them out for a while. I assume you haven’t been home much at all, today.” He wasn’t mocking the other; it was a genuine suggestion, and Hannibal frowned slightly when he heard hesitation in his own voice.

He wouldn’t be so disrespectful as to ask ‘convince them of what?’. They both knew well enough.

“They would investigate. Your opinion is of value to them.” But they would find nothing. Surely Will wouldn’t be locked up right away; even if Jack thought he was wrong, it wouldn’t mean that he had gone insane. “—Such a tableau would not be created.”

When Will glanced up at him, the doctor returned his look, eyes locking for the moment. There were so many feelings – satisfaction, hope, expectance, worry – all of them flashing across the man’s face in seconds. What would happen now?

“Did I?”

Did he win? He couldn’t win if he was the only one playing. This had started as a game, something for his own interest and amusement, but that wasn’t the only reason for his actions anymore. For quite a while, it was more than that.

“Did the Ripper get what he wanted, Will?”

 

…

 

“You’re right, I could.  I could pick myself up, and put on my coat, and drive home pretending that absolutely nothing is wrong.”  The words left his lips with a puff of sharply exhaled breath; pressed along out of his lungs with the quiet, deadpan statement.  “And I might even get there without incident…’

“Take your advice, feed my dogs.. And what then, Doctor?”

Part of Will wanted to curl back into the chair, and pull his knees up against his chest. It was a childish urge, and one he managed to stomp down; but he couldn’t quite swallow it back entirely.  Pushing himself to his feet instead, Will’s hands gripped his elbows, fingers digging into the tense muscle and sharp bone; like a sad mimicry of protection.

_ Did I? _

_ Did  _ **_I_ ** _? _

The single letter, in Hannibal’s calm voice, struck Will like a punch to the chest, all the air forced out of his lungs and leaving only burning behind.  Like breathing in gasoline, he thought, as he tried to formulate words.  They felt slippery in his mind, dodging away as though his own failing denial was struggling to keep him apart from the truth.

His instinct said  _ no _ .  That whatever the doctor had been trying to gain, something had gone awry in his plans.  

His mind, the logical part that tried to piece together the facts; holding them up like intangible puzzle pieces, said  _ not yet _ .

“I’m not sure.. No..no, I don’t think so.  If you kill me, you just have to hope that she’ll sees the messages in your work.  And that… That…”  Will had to pause, pacing towards his coat, before turning back to the other side of the room.

_ That she can love you.  Understand you.   _ **_See you_ ** .

“She’s not here.  I don’t know if you’re just.. playing a longer game,. Or if you caught the wrong fish, or… I don’t know.  Maybe you’re hoping she’ll see it on her own now, and you don’t need a translator.”

 

…

 

“Uncle Jack will keep you painfully busy, as always. And then you’ll come back here, at our usual time. Or before that, should you require aid with your new case.” It was an impossible suggestion, and it wasn’t what the doctor wanted, either. He didn’t want Will to pretend that nothing had happened, that he hadn’t understood. But there were things Hannibal didn’t want changed. What if Will left his office, now, and never returned? Of course, knowing his home in Wolf Trap it would be easy to force a connection, but it wouldn’t be the same.

Right now, it seemed as though the other man wasn’t sure if he wished to flee or not.

However, his answer revealed something Hannibal hadn’t entirely taken into consideration.

She?

Hearing the other man’s words, Hannibal questioningly tipped his head to the side, just slightly. Will didn’t realize at all that he was not translator but recipient. He hadn’t know, when he hadn’t been aware of whom the Ripper was. He didn’t know, now, either. Whom did he believe had the message been for? He was certain it was a woman – someone the Ripper sees every day, someone he does not only feel vague affection for.

They merely had one acquaintance Will could be thinking of.

Alana Bloom.

Someone Hannibal knew for a rather long time; someone he respected as a colleague and a friend. Yes, he liked Alana. She was warm and genuine, intelligent, beautiful. Someone who could make anyone happy with her presence. But not someone who could ever comprehend him and his nature.

“Dr. Bloom shan’t see what was not meant for her, Will.”

Will’s words implied that he still believed he wouldn’t survive this evening – or that he would distance himself from the Ripper murders. However, neither would be his own choice.

 

…

 

He made it sound so simple.  As if he could just turn a blind eye to Hannibal’s crimes, and pretend that everything was as it had been.  But there was a whole folder on a chair by the coat stand, and Will could too clearly remember the images tucked away inside.

“A new case which just might be one of your own?  I can’t pretend that I don’t know your.. Your  _ work _ .  Dammit, Hannibal!  I can’t.. I’m supposed to stop you.”

It didn’t sound very convincing, even to his own ears.

Until today, the Ripper had been a faceless man; a figure in the shadowy dark of Will’s mind.

Now, he was tall, and clear; with sharp cheekbones and a voice that had come to be more than familiar.  it was  _ safe _ .  It was the sound of logic and sense, even when his mind was drowning in blood and death.

“Fine.. Not Alana then.. Then who?”  He finally asked, praying that the ice in his veins was horror, and nothing more.  Because he couldn’t handle anything else.

“Beverly?”  He asked, trying to distract himself by running through the women that Hannibal dealt with at the FBI frequently.  It was like a mental exercise; lists of names and faces, and selectively discarding them.  “I.. I don’t know.  God..”

Because maybe, he thought, if he could just understand  _ why _ , then all those lives wouldn’t have been in vain. 

 

…

 

“Yes. You’re supposed to stop the Ripper. This is, after all, why Jack is sending you into darkness, again and again.”

_ But will you? Do you really want to stop him, having seen his tableaus, having found something beautiful in them. _

**_Nobody could love him._ **

“How did you plan on stopping him?”

It was something the psychiatrist had often wondered about. Will saw something in his crimes that no one else was able to see; he even admitted to appreciating his work. And Hannibal didn’t think that death was what the other man had planned for the Ripper. No, that wasn’t what Will had wanted, was it? If the FBI were to catch him, then his punishment would certainly be just that, however.

Will quickly accepted his mistake, though the doctor’s mouth twitched unpleasantly when he merely began to skim through a list, women they both knew, even if the older man had no connection with them whatsoever. If Hannibal were a lesser man he would huff and roll his eyes at that statement. Beverly Katz was a clever woman, good at what she was doing, and Will liked her. Though, the doctor had no true interest in her. He could appreciate her and her sharp mind, but not more than that.

“You’re fiercely denying yourself the truth.”

Willingly and purposely covering his eyes, because he had to know. Right now, he just had to.

 

…

 

“I don’t know.  I.. I don’t think I ever did.  If they catch you, it’s.. They’ll put you to death.  Or lock you up for the rest of your natural life.  And they’ll claim it was all for the best, to keep people  _ safe _ from you.  And I can’t argue with that!  They’re right.  You’re dangerous.”

Will turned on his heel, pacing back the way he came.  Like a tiger in a cage, restless and tense; his expression flickering from confusion to hurt, to frustrated rage.  Hard fingers gripped bruises into his own arms, as he tried to think– but the words slipped around in his mind, skimming around the bold image of Hannibal, hopelessly waiting out his years like a sideshow exhibit.

“Come one, come all, see the monster.”  He laughed brittlely, shaking his head as his heart burned in his chest.  

“I’m sorry if I’m not picking up on the obvious, Dr. Lecter!  This is a lot to process in five minutes.”  He shot back.  And Oh, he should have left.  They shouldn’t even be having this conversation!  

Glancing back at the other man, and then to the door, Will accepted with a sinking resignation that he wasn’t going to run.  Not today.  Not from him.

“For all I know, everything I’d guessed until today has been wrong.  Maybe it was all my imagination.  I  _ don’t know _ .”

 

…

 

“You could end this right now.” He could try, at least. He could call Jack – he could attempt to attack, himself. Hannibal imagined how the other male might react if he were anyone else. If Will had found the Ripper, a mere stranger, alone. What would he have done? Would he have paused to talk to him?

As if to provoke a response, Hannibal stepped closer, slowly - predatorily - approaching the other man, arms held by his sides.

It was just as Will described; he would be given the death sentence without a doubt. He would sit in his small, dark cell, waiting for his end. Dozens of professionals would come to speak to him, to poke about in his head, to try to understand even though they weren’t capable of that. And his captor? He would be out to solve the next case, find the next culprit—or maybe he wouldn’t wish to work for the FBI anymore at all.

The trials would maybe be the last time the doctor would see Will.

A distasteful thought. Not disconcerting, perhaps, but definitely not acceptable. Hannibal cared about his freedom. He didn’t want to give up the life he was living. The older man could live with less – much less. He could survive. But he didn’t want his existence to be taken from him.

A dark look crossed Hannibal’s features. “No,” the doctor replied firmly, not allowing such statements, not when they were so entirely wrong. “No, you know you’ve been right about many things.  _ You  _ **_saw_ ** .”

 

…

 

There wasn’t enough anger to be cathartic– or enough fear to convince him to leave.  He couldn’t stay, and he couldn’t leave; trapped in the hellish limbo that was..

Well, it was bloody ironic that they were standing in the waiting room.

“I can end it?  How?  If I walk out of here, and pretend this didn’t happen.. You’re going to kill again.  And I’ll see it.  Only this time, I’ll know exactly what happened.”

Will’s eyes caught sight of the plain, white folder; the embossed FBI logo pressed onto the front.  And his knees nearly buckled as images flashed hard through his mind.  Hannibal’s hands, impossibly graceful as he wound incomplete melodies on his victim’s strung flesh.

No blood on them, his hands washed clean, unwilling to stain his new instrument.

“Oh God..” He choked, pressing his hands to his eyes, trying to block out the too-vivid pictures, spreading like a stain behind his eyelids.

Standing before the upraised antlers, sculpting the Copycat’s first victim over the sharp points.

_ Marissa _ .  Their own daughter’s friend, naked and bleeding and left in the dark.  It had been a game.  Planned,  _ he had been there _ .  And they had talked to her, and.. 

Hannibal kneeling in the back of the ambulance, so calm and poised as he held the man’s life in his hands.

_ The Ripper had some surgical background. _

Organs missing.  Hannibal’s knife sliding through a glossy liver as Will watched him cook.

Will felt the chaotic electricity in his skull, as synapses fired erratically; his pupils contracted down to a pinpoint of darkness in a pool of pale blue as he looked up at the other man.  His steps slowed and swayed as his thoughts combusted with caustic sparks.

“I see…” He admitted, falling hard into a waiting room chair before his legs failed him.  “I never would have seen you, if you hadn’t broken your own rules for someone.’

“I was looking for you all along.”

 

…

 

“You saw without my help, Will.”

The other male had always seen grace, art, as he was looking at the Ripper’s tableaus. He saw cruelty and beauty alike, one not eliminating the other, not for him, not in his mind. Humiliation, and change. Meaning. Even before all this, there had been purpose. And Will had seen it; hadn’t merely seen the horror that others had found.

“You just didn’t know what you were seeing.”

He hadn’t known it was him. Perhaps he could have known, if he had allowed it, but it was true that Will hadn’t realized it before. Yet, the work remained the same.The tableaus didn’t change. The message didn’t change. Dots were connecting, pieces that were once lost now falling into their rightful places.

It was a terrifying thing. For once, there was someone looking at him as they knew. Truly seeing him. Will didn’t see what Bedelia DuMaurier called his person suit; he was completely open, letting the other man study his actions and himself, his nature. In this moment, Will had the power to accept or to destroy. It was a heady but unsettling feeling, to let this happen. To want this. Euphoria and apprehension and esperance all in one mere second, nearly too much to process, and it was swelling quickly in his chest.

And Hannibal didn’t know what would happen now. The other male had asked; though for this, the doctor had no answer. Will was too unpredictable for him to be able to tell. He knew what he, himself, wanted. And Will was still here, he hadn’t run. He was sitting down, even though it made him even more vulnerable to the Ripper. Taking his own chance to escape, this way.

Tone growing softer as he came to stand right before the other, Hannibal asked.

“Would you like to hear what I wished to play for you?”


	7. Ligature

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is music, and questions of worth.

_**Ligature: Curved line connecting notes to be sung or played as a phrase.** _

 

On the surface the question was so simple– did he want to listen?  Will had always been curious, perhaps to a fault; wanting to see and to know.  Pressing for the truth, time and time again, even when his discoveries horrified him.

Even when the terrible, the macabre, reminded him that he wasn’t as horrified as he should be.

Hannibal Lecter had been the mastermind behind the beautiful work; the art Will had secretly admired, forged in twisted flesh and broken, splintered bone.  While the world, and his colleagues, saw only mutilation, Will couldn’t strangle the sick understanding that he was looking at the same images.  But through different eyes.

_ Listening _ would mean returning to the office.  To the space that was so wholly, uniquely  _ Hannibal _ .  And accepting the Devil’s bargain… Because he hadn’t left.  Hadn’t run for his life, or fled the monster’s domain.  He hadn’t fished his phone from his pocket to tell Jack.  Or drawn the gun from his hip, and put a bullet between Hannibal’s eyes…

Any of those, he thought, would be the  _ right _ thing to do.  The moral thing.

With a stumbled, lurching step, Will pushed himself towards the office door.  One leading back to the room with the piano.  The other, to the cold, dark night.  He leaned too far as he stepped around Hannibal, unable to meet his dark gaze.  Shame blooming in his chest, as he gripped the handle– and closed his eyes as the biting, winter wind blew in to meet him.

“If I walk back into that room, it’s like I’m condoning everything you’ve done.  All the people you’ve killed.  And it means accepting that I want to understand. That I’m the sort of person who could put their own curiousity above his.. Ethics.’

“Your composition was written for someone specific.. You should play for them.  Not me.”

 

…

 

There was a certain—humor, in this situation.

Will didn’t truly want to say no. He wanted to hear what the Ripper had been composing; the song he had wanted to create, but hadn’t quite achieved in the end. It would be another piece finding its place, another detail. The other man would understand even more about the killer now, and no one could blame Will for being curious. For wanting to find more truth.

And more graceful elegance.

He must be eager to learn if the song he would hear would resonate with the melody he had imagined, himself. If perhaps, they were one and the same, indeed. But what would it say about him if it were that way?

It would be so easy, though. To stand, to head back into Hannibal’s office, approach the piano. The doctor would play for him, without hiding rhythm and meaning, this time. Without hiding anything. And all Will had to do was listen. It was too late to pretend that this wasn’t at all what the other man wanted.

Will stood and Hannibal took a step back, allowing him more room to decide, a flicker of hope crossing his features because he thought that now, now the other would come back with him and finally see that it had been done for him. But then he changed directions, heading towards the entrance, the chill of the icy winter wind blowing into their faces. Hannibal froze. Waiting.

There was a somewhat desperate bark of laughter stuck in the back of his throat when Will uttered those words. Still not seeing it, still oblivious, after everything that had been said. What a curious feeling that was. Will Graham, special agent of the FBI, the one who was so good at knowing what others felt that it was his job. But this, this he couldn’t understand, because it was beyond him.

“I cannot play it for him if he leaves my waiting room now.”

 

…

 

In a way, it all came back to music.  It was in the sharp, mournful howl of the wind that swept through the open door.  The dull bass thump of his heart in his ears, reverberating through the hollows of his chest.  It was in Hannibal’s steady breath behind him.  And the rustle of their clothes as they moved.

And off that stopped– life and sound and breath– in the ringing silence of Hannibal’s words.

_ Him. _

On some level, Will wasn’t as surprised as he thought he would be.  Disbelief stoned to death with simple syllables, as the tumblers in the lock finally slid into place; and with a deafening click, he could see it.

He  _ had _ been talking to him.  All along.

Hysterical laughter, bloody and raw and torn from the lining of his soul bubbled up in his chest; only swallowed back by sheer force of will.  “I could walk out the door, right now, and you wouldn’t stop me.” He said, his voice shaking as he looked out at the dark street.

It was snowing.  Drifts collecting beneath the sulfur yellow street lamps, and coating the browning grass in the doctor’s yard.  And it crunched under his feet as he took one step, and then two, out into the darkness, watching the rectangle of golden light on the ground that shone from the doorway.  Bisected by his own shadow.

 

…

 

_ We all want someone who understands us and accepts as for what we are. It’s human nature. _ He could remember the words, as they had been spoken to him, and as he had uttered them, himself. 

**Well, Dr. Lecter, how does that make you feel?** A question any psychiatrist would be asking now, watching the scene unfold before their eyes. The silence that rang in his ears, no reaction at all, at first, but perhaps the tensing of muscles, a quickened heartbeat.

Now he knew. Now Will knew everything there was to know.

And he could decide what he would do with this knowledge. The doctor didn’t often feel regret; he was capable of the feeling, yes, but it wasn’t one he crossed ways with much. And he knew he wouldn’t regret this. It could harm him –  _ was  _ harming him, right now, maybe – but more often than not, one would truly regret the chances one didn’t take.

“No, I wouldn’t,” Hannibal agreed, quieter than usually. “I wouldn’t stop you. You could return home, as I’ve said.” With a pang of  **_something_ ** in his chest he realized this was only possible because the FBI wouldn’t believe Will. Would think it was a false alarm. Because if his life were in danger then Will wouldn’t be walking out of his office like this.

“It is entirely your choice if in the end, the Ripper shall get what he wants.” The psychiatrist followed him but only to the door, not going any further.

 

…

 

Will could leave.  It wasn’t Hannibal’s permission, or the fact that his legs felt as strong as limp spaghetti under him.  It was a fact.  He could, if he wanted, walk away.  Pretend that none of this had ever happened.  He could tell Jack.  Could push and push until they investigated.. And perhaps, if they were lucky, even find something.

Hannibal had never forced him to stay.  The door had always been open.. And as his knotted thoughts began to finally clear, Will wondered..  _ Would that have made it easier for him? _

Had Hannibal wanted to him to leave?  For months he had been watching the patterns in the Ripper’s work grow.. Different.  

And then he spoke, and suddenly, something made sense.

Will sketched a shaky laugh, dragging both hands through his curls, and tugging them straight back from his forehead.  “No, the  _ Ripper _ doesn’t.  He’s a fucking construct.  A creation of a lot of FBI agents who couldn’t see passed the ends of their noses.  The Ripper is a boogeyman, because giving him a name makes him less scary.”

His heart felt like it was hammering, bruising, against his ribs as he eased back a slow step.  Cautious on the slippery step; which felt strangely more threatening than the man whose eyes he could feel on the back of his head.

As the door swung closed, blotting out the winter wind, Will finally turned to Hannibal, his hands shaking as he gripped his elbows, “Show me.  I want to hear it.”

 

…

 

It wasn’t the only name Hannibal had gotten over the many years of his life. Sometimes it came from the police itself, sometimes it came from people like Freddie Lounds, sensational reporters who wanted to draw more attention. And it worked. Perhaps giving a thing a name made it less scary; perhaps it created a certain mysticism that nearly made it seem as though the killer wasn’t from this world. Whatever it was, Will wasn’t seeing a mysterious creature when he was looking at this scenes.Wasn’t even seeing a faceless stranger any longer.

However, Hannibal had to wonder what exactly those words implied. The Ripper wouldn’t get what he wanted, because he didn’t truly exist. He was nothing but a man-made construct. But he was real.

The doctor glanced up, inhaling, as the other man decided to return, a careful step leading him back, the door clicking shut once more. The waiting room was still icy cold, the breath the older man released fogging some.

Of course he wouldn’t deny the other now.

He nodded. Hannibal headed back into his office, nearing the instrument with slow but sure steps, acutely aware of Will’s presence behind him. It was the other man’s choice if he wished to sit with him or not; the doctor had the feeling that Will would prefer more distance between them, and so didn’t offer a seat on the bench again. The lid was pushed up carefully.

“It will not truly be the same.” It would never really feel as though Will had been there with him, as the song was created first. But it was something; more than he could expect to share with anyone. Without more prompting or hesitation – even though he wasn’t quite his calm, usual self, either – the older man began to play. The same melody than before, but different still, more feeling, more right, because now he had shared, and he was not alone regardless.

 

…

 

Connections had always come easily to him.  Other people’s emotions and motivations sliding around in his mind, poisoning little pieces of him.  As they inquired and  _ borrowed _ , his consciousness.  As though the man himself was merely a life support system for the toxic imagination.

And so he had built walls.  And forts; great stone edifices that kept people to the outside of his mind.  To the shallows, where it was safe.  Protecting himself in miles of suffocating structure.

But Hannibal had been different.  From their first meeting, he had looked through the gaps in Will’s defenses; sliding like an eel through the walls that had been specially constructed to keep people out.  And in the end, Will had started to let him in.  Had widened the cracks where only Hannibal could find them.

The news had cut to the quick, and Will felt like he was bleeding out.  Helpless against the truth.

The office was precisely the same as it had been.  The great, vaulted ceiling framed at one end with high windows; and their usual chairs facing one another before the slanted couch.

And there was the piano, sitting in stillness; waiting for Hannibal’s hands to slide across its’ keys, and bring it to life.  

Will wasn’t sure where to sit.  The chairs were..wrong.  This wasn’t therapy– _God_ _no_ – but there was simply too much tension between them to be friendly.  And so, with a glance around (and the confirmation that he hadn’t missed any easy solution) Will sank down to the floor, leaning back against of the piano legs.

The floor was reassuringly solid.  It was real, in the way the situation didn’t seem to be.

As Hannibal began to play, Will could feel the vibrations as they carried through the instrument.  Travelling down the sculpted legs, until they seeped into his shoulders.  Shivers of sound that brought goosebumps out on his arms; deep bass notes that made his bones hum, and sharp, bright ones that set the hair at the nape of his neck of edge.

And it was right, in the way the other pieces hadn’t been.

In the silence that followed, Will’s eyes drifted closed; feeling the tactile shiver of the fading notes as they stilled in his veins.  “Being with you was the only time I didn’t feel afraid.’

“And I know that.. Just because I didn’t see it.. Doesn’t mean it wasn’t there all along.  And.. I understand why you lied.  I do.  But it doesn’t make it any easier to swallow.”

 

…

  
  


They were just alike. Despite his understanding, professional detachment had always come easily to Hannibal. He radiated calm, no matter how dangerous or nerve-racking a situation was – it had been necessary, too, as he had still worked as a surgeon. He knew what psychologists thought about the Chesapeake Ripper; however, contrary to their opinions, the doctor was able to feel a lot, if he allowed it. If he didn’t, there merely was a clinical sense of sereneness about the man.

He had lost control, somewhat, when it came to Will. The other male had managed to break through the walls. He hadn’t just climbed them; they barely even existed anymore, now. And he had done it effortlessly. What had started as an interesting game born by curiosity, a potential connection that had drawn his interest, had evolved. The game had never entirely slipped through his fingers but he had swiftly found that trying to see Will as anything other than an equal was quite fruitless.

If he wanted to, Will could play him all the same. He could hurt him; he had been right about that.

Hannibal hadn’t thought that the other man would sit with him, though the doctor had supposed he would choose a chair, or maybe not sit at all. Instead, Will moved to lean against the piano, so close that he would not only hear, but feel the music, the notes and vibrations, all rushing straight through him. An intimate way to take in a melody.

The song came to an end. Will didn’t move away.

Hannibal hadn’t lied, not exactly. Yes, there were many things he hadn’t said, things he had said that had implied something that wasn’t true, but there had rarely been an outright lie. He had been as honest as he could have been. It would be no comfort, however, and so the words weren’t uttered.

Nothing had changed, yet everything was different.

“Are you afraid right now, Will?”

Hannibal stood. He walked around bench and piano— reaching out his hand to the other, offering, but not knowing what to expect. Never knowing what to expect with the other male.

 

…

 

With his eyes fixed on the floor, Will couldn’t see the offered hand.  But he could hear the question in Hannibal’s voice; the single note of something  _ changed  _ in his tone, as the end of his game had rushed forwards far too fast.

For either of them.

“Afraid?”  He asked quietly, drawing one knee up to his chest, and draping his arms across it loosely.  As though the question didn’t sit like a physical presence in the room; an ugly, squatting toad, fashioned out of syllables that sounded simple.  And felt like an impossible puzzle.

“Yes.  I’m afraid of my perception.  And I’m petrified about what to do tomorrow.  About how I’m going to drive back to Virginia like this, and not distractedly slide off the edge of the I-95.  I’m afraid of what all of this means.’

“But fear is basically my life.  It’s not crippling.”

Slowly, Will turned his head to look over at Hannibal, his blue gaze seeming washed out, almost colourless and grey in the dim, indirect light.  He followed the long, tapered fingers towards his palm, the smooth line of his arm cut sharply by a buttoned sleeve in tailored silk.

It was easier than looking at his face; the familiar sharp, angular features, or the deep, maroon eyes that simply saw far, far too much.

“But I’m not afraid of you.  Not right now.  If you wanted me dead, Dr. Lecter, I would be.  And you wouldn’t have spent your time crafting messages out of people.’

“Maybe I should as if  _ you’re  _ afraid.  I mean, all I have to lose is my job, self respect, and sanity.  And my life, I guess… None of those things are doing very well, anyway.”

 

…

 

Fear wasn’t supposed to be Will’s life. Each killer whose mind he was walking into he was also giving the opportunity to walk into his own, even if shallowly. However, what others – especially Jack – would describe as a gift was a curse to the man, simply because he lacked acceptance. He was afraid of what it meant about him, that he could understand those murderers so beautifully. He was afraid that he might be one of them, in the end. Losing his sanity.

It didn’t have to be like this.

Was Hannibal afraid?

It had all been easy, up to this point. Becoming Will’s psychiatrist, his paddle. Growing closer and luring the man into the safety of friendship.And it hadn’t been a lie, what the doctor had said to him. He did stand with him, side by side, in the darkness Jack Crawford sent him into. Because Hannibal wandered in the same murkiness. Willingly. Having made this world his own.

But now, now it wasn’t easy anymore.

Straightened himself, and retreating, the man gave a nod. Of course Will wouldn’t look at him right now. The other had sought more eye contact, with time, though it made sense that he wouldn’t grant him this now.

“Aren’t we all afraid in love?” Hannibal shot the other male’s words back at him; though what could have been a teasing response was nothing but seriousness. The cold tang of rejection was not much easier to swallow than unwelcome, sickening knowledge. “Perhaps I believed that I did not have more to lose than I have to gain. And I still believe so. The message stands. What you do with it is not in my control.”

That was something the doctor wasn’t completely used to, and he found he didn’t exactly enjoy that, either. This vulnerability the older man would have to learn how to forgive, if that was what he wanted.

 

…

 

He had come to the office that night with one thought in mind– to understand the madness behind the Ripper’s music.  And, in a way, he supposed, he had done that.  The faded melody of the song still coloured the air; a feeling that endured beyond the limitation of the notes themselves.

And in the stillness, Will thought about their conversations. His own theories about the Ripper.. Slowly pinning those thoughts to his image of Hannibal in his mind.  Because, as much as he wanted to, Will knew he couldn’t dwell in denial; he had come for insight.

The illumination in his thoughts burned.

_ Click, click.. _

_ Snap. _

“You don’t need love to be afraid.”  Will breathed, just to fill the silence.  Suddenly it was crushing, filling his lungs like water.  He had known that the Ripper was in love with his chosen audience.. He had  _ said it..  _ But Hannibal.. 

The tumblers in his thoughts jerked straight with violent comprehension, and Will could hear the rushing of blood in his ears.  “Don’t.. Just, don’t.  You don’t love me.  I don’t  _ want _ you to.”

Restlessly Will all but bolted to his feet, tugging at the cuffs of his shirt, and wringing his hands anxiously as he paced.  Mapping a path from the chairs, to the piano, and back again.  “Alana was right– I’m not stable.  I’m a mess, Hannibal.  You don’t want any part of that..”

Slowly he trailed off, dragging his fingers harshly through his wild curls, setting them at strange angles.  Like a mad scientist, as he paced the room.

Distracted enough, that he was only vaguely aware of the irony.  Trying to convince the monster that he was no good for him.  The piercing, sewing needle pain in his chest blotting out much of the world outside the office.  “You might think you love me, but you’ll be disappointed.  I just know it… I’ll let you down.”

 

…

 

Everything had clicked into place. New understanding had been found; Will had solved the case, just how Jack had wanted him to. His work had been a success, once again.

There was a subtle frown on the man’s face when he was told that Will didn’t want his affections. Implying that he wished for Hannibal to stop. “I’m afraid that one cannot change with whom one falls in love.” The doctor glanced toward the windows, not meeting the other’s gaze even if it were there.

Before his train of thought came to a stuttering halt with the next words.

–Wil was attempting to convince him of the upcoming disappointment Will would bring. He was trying to convince him that Will himself was too unstable for the doctor to want him.

It was rare that Hannibal was left wide-eyed and speechless; the man usually had a clever remark on the back of his tongue in any situation. But right now? The doctor would have to admit that the other man’s reaction actually startled him. Caught him off-guard. Because that was something he hadn’t at all expected. A monologue about how terrifying and uncomfortable it was to have such feelings directed at him, coming from someone like Hannibal, yes, that was what he had seen coming. Sharp hurt at being seen as a monster, and being pushed away.

All of that wouldn’t have been a surprise.

But of course, how so often, Will managed to make the unexpected happen.

“For you to disappoint me I’d have to have unrealistic expectations of you, Will.“ Hannibal would lie if he said he had no expectations at all, that he was void of hope for something, though it hadn’t come to mind that Will might disappoint. Reject and harm, yes, but not disappoint.

“You’re implying that your own lack of self-worth and stability is what makes you react negatively.”

 

…

 

“No..  I’m reacting negatively, Dr. Lecter, because I just found out that my friend– who has been helping me with this case– has actually been the cause of my.. um.. Job security.  After all,”  He added with a touch of bleak, humourless amusement, “Jack wouldn’t exactly need to keep me around if the killers made it easy to find them.”

Slowly Will rubbed his hands over his arms, feeling like the chill from the snow outside has leeched into his marrow; freezing him from the inside out.  Probably shock, he thought remotely; the aspirin in his pocket rattling in the bottle as he fished it out.

“I.. I need to think about this.”  He finally decided, fidgeting with the child proof cap on the bottle, without opening it.  “If I give you my word that I won’t tell Jack, can you just… Not kill anyone for a few days?  Give me a chance to.. I don’t even know..  _ try  _ to make some kind of sense out of this?’

“Just.. it’s a lot to process.”

With a look back down at his hands, Will shoved the bottle back into his pocket– a twinge of self preservation whispering that he wasn’t good to anyone if he overdosed and drove off the road.

“And if you’re surprised about my lack of self worth, then clearly you haven’t met me before.  Isn’t that part of reason that I ended up in your office in the first place?  Jack and Alana knowing that I wasn’t screwed on tightly enough to be trusted.?”

 

…

 

Hannibal had helped him with this case because it had been fun – ironically amusing – and because he had been so very intrigued by Will’s insight. He doubted that any compliments of this sort would be willingly received by the other man at this moment, and so they were swallowed for now.

It was a lot to take in, that was fact. But—

The doctor was sure the other wasn’t taunting him with this. He was asking, genuinely asking, for time to ponder over all this. As if he couldn’t decide what to do right away. Because he didn’t want to say yes, but he didn’t want to say no, either.

He could feel his pulse speed up and was aware once more just how distastefully helpless this situation made him.

“Is my making a promise to you of any value?“

Apparently it was. Apparently Will would believe him if he said he would do as asked. And perhaps it was a test for both of them.

Was trust in the older man entirely misplaced?

Would Will plot with the FBI behind his back, as soon as he had left the office?

“You shan’t hear from the Ripper, until we meet again.” That much Hannibal could promise. His tableaus had always been quite rare; Jack was so determined to catch him now because he knew after this, he would be gone again for years.

“The cause of my surprise was not your words, but the moment in which they were spoken.” Will had, as long as they knew each other now, always considered himself a mess. The doctor had been aware. But listing this as a reason, right in this second—Will had to see how that sounded like.


	8. Ostinato

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which they meet again.

_**Ostinato: A repeated phrase.** _

 

When Will had left the office without a backwards glance, he had truly intended to give the situation his full attention.  And to return the next day with some form of answer.  Hannibal, he thought, deserved at least that much– payment, perhaps, a pound of Will’s flesh as payment for his honesty.

But Lady Luck had never particularly favoured Will (something he had quietly resented.  While some people won awards and conveniently stumbled on miracles, his life seemed like something more of a long race through impossible pitfalls and unexpected hurdles) and it was nearly a week before he would see the doctor again. 

The young, fledgling killer that they had seen so much promise in, suddenly went on a spree of bloodletting– four more bodies, all young women, laid out sacrificially, turning up in short order.  Jack was chewing the scenery, his nerves strung out to their limit, pulled tighter over the rack of each new victim.

And if that hadn’t been enough, two of Hannibal’s patients had decided that the good doctor’s time was open to their interference.  

Will’s classroom was dark, the only light coming from the small desk lamp on the table; and the vague illumination spilling in from the corridor.  A thousand hideous images littered the surface, their sightless eyes staring up from the glossy crime scene snapshots.

The only other thing on the table, apart from a mostly empty bottle of aspirin, and a dried up paper coffee cup, was Will’s head.  Matted curls fanned messily over his forehead, damp with sweat as he shuddered in the arms of a nightmare.  Behind his eyelids, Will drowned in the darkness, his hands skittering, clawed, across the table, a few photographs fluttering to the floor.

If he had known that Jack had asked for Dr. Lecter’s opinion on the killer’s profile…

 

…

 

The doctor hadn’t expected the other to be back so soon. There was a lot to think about, an important decision to make, after all. And so the older male was neither surprised nor displeased when Will didn’t show up at his door the next day, or the day after that. He found that he might he concerned if the other also didn’t show up at their usual time, missing their session, though that time hadn’t yet come, and he had been successfully distracted by other matters himself.

Hannibal kept his promise, and more. He had told Will that he wouldn’t hear from the Ripper until their next meeting. Wording it so he wouldn’t break his promise by creating a different sort of tableau, something the FBI wouldn’t connect to the Ripper. A reminder of what he was without going against his word. But he hadn’t. No life had been taken by his hands since the other man had found out.

However, after receiving a call from Jack Crawford, Hannibal knew that he wouldn’t have to wait any longer to see Will.

He would be there to help with the case, as so often before. The doctor wouldn’t be there to push for an answer. Their last conversation would have to wait, if Will even wished to continue it, at this point.

The man was certainly curious how Will would react to his presence; he wasn’t sure if Jack had announced his arrival.

When he stepped into Will’s classroom, the other man was alone, sitting at his desk, tense and trembling, head dipped, barely visible in the dark room. Hannibal chose not to call out to him just yet, stepping closer, fascinated not by the pictures that came into view as he slowly reached the desk, but by the other, the way he was losing himself in the crime and in the horror he called his life.

Expression shifting from curiosity to concern, the doctor lifted his arm to place his hand on Will’s shoulder; a familiar gesture that might snap the other out of his current state. “Will?”

 

…

 

_ The water was so dark, lapping against the side of his little rubber raft.  And he was far from shore; so far that the land had vanished long into the distance.  Lost below the horizon.  _

_ And then the water was churning; his boat rocking violently against the tide.  And it wasn’t dark anymore; it was red.   _

_ It was flooding over the side of the raft, and he was bailing with his hands, and he could feel the impossible depth of it.  Bailing. _

_ Bailing.  Blood sloshing over his arms as it rose up around him.  And it was cold. _

With a ragged, choked breath, Will’s spidery fingers closed over the hand on his shoulder harshly.  His skin feeling chill and clammy against Hannibal’s warmth, as he gasped for air, dragging in great lungfuls– like denying the images that still hovered in the quiet space behind his eyelids.

And, in tiny pieces, he managed to reassemble himself.  

Slowly Will turned to look up at the other man, his blue eyes bloodshot and his complexion distinctly grey.  A week of death, and little sleep, undoing the fledgling good that the doctor had managed to inspire.

“Sorry..”  He finally said roughly, his fingers stiff and cramped as he released Hannibal’s hand.  “I must have.. Sorry.. Just.. Give me a sec.” Will added disjointedly, pushing back his chair with a squeak of the legs against the wooden floor.  

Will’s curls were dragged straight as he forced his hands through them, pushing himself to his feet despite the feeling of jelly in his knees.  “What are you doing here?”  He asked, squinting without his glasses, down at his watch, “At 8:30?  It’s not.. I didn’t miss an appointment again, did I?”

 

…

 

Will came back to himself with a start, his hand gripping his own, though the doctor didn’t flinch, merely watching attentively, also to make sure that no further assistance would be necessary. He didn’t get to see the other at work as often as he would like; it was engrossing, truly, how far gone Will could be in such moments.

Hannibal would love nothing more, right now, than to sink his fingers into the man’s brain to pull out the images that had raced through it just seconds before. As it was, however, the psychiatrist took a step to the side when Will loosened his hold on his hand, the other’s fingers busying themselves by combing through his curls. “Of course.”

Jack must see the other man like this rather often, didn’t he? And yet he continued to push him, asking him to look at more scenes, to sit here in the dark to see more photographs.

“No, I have received a call from Jack,” the doctor told him truthfully. “He’s asked for my help, telling me that the new case was reaching new dimensions.” And he hadn’t been wrong. Hannibal was already glancing at the pictures spread out on the desk, slightly bent, taking them in.

If one was being rational then it would be nothing but foolish to decline the doctor’s aid; his insight had often before been helpful. This wasn’t his case. Something separate from his crimes. While it might be difficult to ignore his own actions, it would certainly be beneficial for Will to accept his presence, at least for this.

“The same pattern, though layered with more aggression. He doesn’t let much time pass anymore. Perhaps he believes that it is impossible for him to find the right person.”

 

…

 

It was a relief, if he were being honest, that he hadn’t missed his appointment. This case had, like so many, gotten too deep into his mind– and Will couldn’t help the twinging fear that he was losing pieces of himself in it.

“Jack like to forget that getting into a killer’s head doesn’t come with an address and a written confession.  He’s been breathing down my neck all week.  Reminding me that people are going to die if I don’t give him more to work on.”  Sitting up straighter, Will crammed the heels of his hands against his eyes, pressing hard against the dark circles and gritty remains of sleep.

He hoped he looked better than he felt.  Because he didn’t think it was possible to look, or feel, more like he had been run over by a bus.

The tablets in the aspirin bottle rattled slightly as he poured four into his hand, swallowing them back with the remaining, bitter, cold dregs from the bottom of his paper coffee cup.

_ Join the FBI and live the good life.  Christ. _

“That’s usually what happens when you kill the right person first.”  He deadpanned, looking down at the photos with a heavy, leaden sigh, “He’s an angry, frustrated kid with access to a big knife and poor impulse control.  It’s not exactly a short list.  The first girl was a student at the University of Virginia.. Doesn’t exactly narrow down the list of suspects, either.”

At least the case was something neutral to talk about.  Something other than the recent revelation that Hannibal himself was a greater threat than this new slasher could ever be.

Or the fact that they had both kept their word.

Wil hadn’t breathed a syllable to Jack.  And Hannibal hadn’t left any new art installations for them to find.

“You know..”  He said exhaustedly, sifting through the papers for what felt like the millionth time, “Jack is thinking that the Ripper has gone back into retirement.  That he missed his chance again.  Everyone here has been walking eggshells around his temper.”

 

…

 

“You are aware of what my feelings on the issue are.” The doctor wasn’t pleased with Jack’s decisions; it would lead to no helpful results if he continued to push Will. The other male clearly needed rest; as fascinating as it was to watch him sink into a killer’s mind, Hannibal was quite set on keeping the man as he was, as well. His essence was something that couldn’t be lost.

His pain killers couldn’t carry him through all this.

There was fond amusement in his gaze when Will uttered the words. Yes, killing the right person was something that could haunt you for quite a long time, the doctor supposed. He wouldn’t make the same mistake.

“You mentioned that this killer admires the Ripper, that he wishes to follow in the footsteps of him.” And this, this did shorten the list of suspects. Of course this young boy could be everywhere in the country right now; he could choose his next victim without a true, visible connection to the others. But this wasn’t what he would do.“He didn’t give up, not yet.”

Hannibal casted a knowing glance at the other man.

If he was right, then this killer’s next attempt was predictable. He didn’t think that he had missed his chance by killing the very first woman. He was still seeking for someone who could love him, a young woman who was able to accept him despite his actions. Perhaps a girl who had tolerated blood-spilling before.

It was only a matter of time.

Of course Jack Crawford would be spiteful right now. Surely he must blame his staff that they didn’t manage to catch the Ripper sooner. “He doesn’t know that his chance is right before him.” And Hannibal was so pleased about that. “Because it leaves him in the dark, still. You did not tell him.”

Will didn’t have to share this with him. He could make the doctor believe that he had, maybe, spoken to Jack. That they were already investigating. But the other man made sure that the psychiatrist knew that this wasn’t the case. And Will wasn’t lying. They had both kept their promise indeed.

 

…

 

“I know.. you’ve made them abundantly clear.  He’s got  gift for reminding me how miserable my future would be if I didn’t help him.  My own fault for having such an obvious Achilles heel.”  Will’s words were punctuated with a heavily weighted sigh, dredged up some somewhere in the pit of his twisted, uncomfortable guts.

He didn’t want to think about this.  Jack’s vendetta.  His own failing grip on reality.  Didn’t want to accept that there was literally a time limit on how patient Hannibal would be… 

Or until someone stumbled on the truth, and proved that dumb luck was sometimes just as effective as the best profiling.  The doctor wasn’t infallible, Will had reminded himself a dozen times throughout the week; eventually something was going to get messier.

“Even if we don’t do anything, it’s likely this killer is going to take himself out of the equation.  He’s coming apart at the seams, and he’s losing  a little more control with each kill.’

“Finding love isn’t really an option for him.  Not because of his crimes, but because he doesn’t really want anyone else.  He’s too fixated to see passed the end of his goddamn nose.”

In the silence after Hannibal’s question– the syllables and sounds of his words pinging around in Will’s mind, accented and pointed, and stripping away the veneer of distance that Will had been trying so hard to cultivate.

“Don’t.”  He said quickly, his words cutting off the end of the good doctor’s sentence, “I mean, not here.  The walls have ears. I didn’t say a word, no; but I’m not having his discussion in a place where Jack literally holds all the cards, and there are armed, angry agents walking around outside in the hallway.”

Exhaustedly, Will rubbed his fingers across his eyes, trying to scrub away the grit of too-little sleep.  Of being propped up on aspirin and coffee for a week.  “It’s not that I don’t want to– this is just the wrong place.  Ok?”

 

…

 

“You are helping him, Will,” the doctor stated firmly. The other man was doing his best; he was doing more than he should. Jack couldn’t expect more than this. All of the FBI knew that Will was the best hound dog they had, though that didn’t mean that the whole responsibility should lay on his shoulders.

It seemed as though Will was more worried about the doctor’s future than Hannibal was – which was in fact quite ironic, because Will was supposed to be the one to catch the Ripper. He was supposed to be the one to bring him down.

He didn’t want to.

“This might be correct. However, he is going to make certain that he won’t be the only one coming apart.” He would take other victims with him; he wouldn’t lose his mind without spilling more blood. It wouldn’t be that easy.

Hannibal smiled at the other when he was stopped, especially so because Will’s words let him know that he was afraid someone might be eavesdropping. Will was also doing more than he had promised; he stayed silent on the matter, and he was going out of his way to prevent anyone from realizing it in any other way.

Was he protecting him?

“What would you suggest, then?” the psychiatrist asked. “Would you prefer leaving – you may take the file with you, of course – or postponing this conversation for another while? I can assure you that I shan’t complain about either choice, Will.” They could, at least for a short moment or two, pretend that nothing had changed. Hannibal could invite him over for a decent meal, they could speak about the case – or this – in calm. Will could get some rest.

But how likely would that be? However, it wasn’t as though Hannibal would lose his patience so quickly. If Will were to tell him to leave him be right now, he would trigger no anger. They hadn’t been meant to cross ways this day, anyway, if it hadn’t been for Jack’s call.

 

…

 

For a week, Will had been telling himself that this was wrong, that his silence was like condoning the Ripper’s murders.  He should, he had reminded himself on the occasion that he forced himself to actually confront the situation, tell Jack immediately.  Let them search– and maybe they would find something, and maybe not.

But either way, he would be able to live with his conscience.

“Do I want to drag this work home with me?  To be honest, Dr. Lecter, I really don’t.  I can’t remember the last night of decent sleep I’ve gotten; and I don’t think having more excuses to stay awake is going to be even remotely healthy.”

Which was a little while lie.  Because he did remember; but looking back on the odd sense of security in having Hannibal down the hall.. Or his own phone shut off… Was tangled too closely in with the realization that Hannibal had been the killer all along.

Wishing the painkillers would kick in faster, his head throbbing, Will swept his hands across the photo strewn table; gathering the images into a pile, and tucking them back into the case file.  “Come on, it’s probably– er, yeah, it’s late.”  He muttered, looking down at his watch for an instant, “No offense, Dr. Lecter.. But given everything, I don’t think I want to go back to yours.”

Which had been their default for months… And now served as a pointed reminder of how blind Will had been.

Straightening his shoulders, Will fished his threadbare coat from the back of the chair, “I’m heading home.. Going to check on my dogs.  But–”  He sighed, nodding resignedly towards the door, “You’re welcome to come.”

Because he hadn’t known what he was going to do, until Hannibal had woken him up.  And suddenly it just didn’t seem as complicated anymore.

 


	9. Resonance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is much conversation.

_**Resonance: When several strings are tuned to harmonically related pitches, all strings vibrate when only one of the strings is struck.** _

 

The psychiatrist nodded in agreement. It was a reasonable, healthy decision. The last thing Will needed right now was more work-related stress, more of Jack’s anger and desperation, more images of the bloodied, torn bodies of killed women whenever he closed his eyes. That the other male was aware of that was the first step into the right direction; Will had managed to shut off his phone during the night before, so of course he could do it again.

Will’s actions made it clear that he intended to leave his classroom. And he was right, it had grown rather late indeed, and it would be best to head home. Not Hannibal’s home, though. The older man could accept this. It was something he had had to expect, after all, that Will would prefer to put more distance between them, for a while or forever, he couldn’t know just yet.

He was sure his surprise showed on his face at the other’s next words. Instead of having the other male come with him, he was invited to spend the rest of the evening at Will’s house.

Hannibal instantly beamed.

He wasn’t certain if Will felt the same, but this was the choice that made the man more vulnerable, in the doctor’s mind. He allowed the doctor to step into his world, he let him be part of his own routine. He wouldn’t be the guest in all this, but willingly opened his own door for the older man.

Will took his car and the older man took his own. Even though Hannibal knew the route, he was of course the one following the other. The weather had yet to clear up, rain making the way just a tad more difficult to bear, and the doctor was pleased when quite a while later, the familiar house came into view. The cars were parked, engines killed, and Hannibal climbed out of his Bentley.

 

…

 

The drive out to Wolf Trap was a Hell of rattled, strained nerves and paranoia.  Of reminding himself that Hannibal’s lights were in this rear view mirror because he had i _ nvited  _ him, not because he was being stalked.  It was almost a relief that the roads were so miserable that he had to give them more than his usual attention.

Sliding off the road into the snow covered gorse bushes was absolutely not in his plans for that night.  

Considering how unsteady he felt; and how out of his depth; Will thought it might be the only part of the night that he did know for certain.

Their tires crunched on the gritty snow as they pulled into the space outside the old farm house; all odd angles and clapboard siding that only just managed to keep the worst of the drafts out.  Snow was falling more heavily as they walked into silence up to the door; Will’s fingers fumbling for a numb moment on the jangling ring of keys he had fished from his jacket pocket.

“Just.. ignore the mess.”  He muttered under his breath as he opened the door– and he cracked a smile as the dogs rushed towards them, barking and yipping in a chaos of fur and floppy ears.  “Hey guys.. Alright, out!”  He added with a chuckle, scratching behind their ears as he shoo’d the pack out of the house.

It looked much the same as it always did.  A homey clutter of odds and ends.  Despite the presence of a bedroom upstairs, Will slept on the bed that folded out from his couch; absently, he wondered what that said about him.  That he chose to sleep on the ground floor, surrounded by windows, so he could see people as they approached.

Partially to keep his hands busy, and part because it was freezing, Will shuffled over to the space heater in the fireplace, and switched it on high, trying to banish the worst of the chill.  “I keep thinking, you know, that you should look different.  Or that I should feel different around you.  But I don’t, unless I’m actively thinking about.. Everything you did.” 

He sighed, holding his hands up to the heater and wiggling his fingers to get the feeling back into them.  “I trusted my ability to read people.. But I was so blind when it came to you.  Your crimes weren’t fits of passion like this new guy.  So if it was a part of you, just a piece of your nature, all along… How could I not have noticed?”

 

…

 

The Bentley had been comfortably warm even in this weather, heated seats doing their best to keep the driver cozy, and so the short way to Will’s house hadn’t caused the man to become too cold.

Hannibal wasn’t surprised in the least when the other man’s pack came rushing towards them as soon as the door was opened; he knew about the dogs, of course, the excited mess of fur that encircled Will before they decided to listen and hurry outside, not minding the cold. They suited the other male well, just as the rest of his home.

The doctor neither cared much about misplaced things nor the bed in the living room. Certainly, there was a story behind it all and maybe, Will would share it with him, one day. But he hadn’t come with the other to psychoanalyze him by invading his personal space, by looking around to collect pieces of his mind that he could put together to form a puzzle. There would be another time for this.

It was yet a tad too cold in the house to remove his coat, so Hannibal approached, standing a little closer to the heater, as well, hands idly resting in his pockets.

“I am just the same. You didn’t cross ways with a mendacious version of myself. Nothing but your level of perception has changed.” The psychiatrist had hid things, had obscured part of what he was, but that didn’t mean that he hadn’t been honest. All of what Will had seen about him had been true; Hannibal wasn’t one or the other, he showed different sides of himself, all of them as real as the others.

“Perhaps you didn’t see it because I didn’t want you to,” the older man offered, musingly. That had been true, once. As intriguing as Will had been to him right from the start, Hannibal hadn’t right away intended to reveal his nature to the man. The risk would have been too great, and he had to experience the other’s empathy, first. Now, he did want him to see. And Will hadn’t disappointed this desire.

“Or maybe you couldn’t see it because you didn’t want to.”

Will was so very talented; his gift was fascinating. He merely needed to look at a crime scene to be able to find the culprit’s motive, to feel and see what had been running through their minds. It was likely that he could have done the same with Hannibal, that he had been capable of comprehending sooner, but that he hadn’t allowed it. There was no going back now, though.

“Do you regret your understanding?”

 

…

 

“My empathy?  I… Sometimes, yes.  I mean, everyone say it’s a gift, but they don’t understand what it’s like to have it inside your head all the time.  Jack says it’s just imagination, did you know that?  That he could  _ borrow _ it, and just give it back.”  Will chuckled listlessly, sinking to a knee in front of the fireplace to try and jimmy a little more heat out of the radiator.

“If it doesn’t warm up in here soon, I’ll get some wood from the shed.  There’s no reason for us to freeze.”  He added, tapping the side of the heater with light fingers, feeling the thin trickle of heat finally starting to warm the immediate air around it.

At least the failing electrical made more sense than his own twisted emotions, tangled like fishing line through his veins.  He was sure it was cutting him apart from the inside out, but damned if he knew how to stop it.

“I  _ know _ I didn’t want to see it.”  He corrected, sitting on the edge of the hearth with an exhausted sigh, “I spend all day looking at the world sides of people.  And there you were– someone that wasn’t violent or deranged.”  He paused, before adding with deadpan, gallows amusement, “Instead, you turned out to be both violent  _ and _ deranged.”

Will hunched forwards, his elbows resting on his knees, as he stared down at the threadbare carpet between them, “And then I think– if I didn’t work for Jack, if I hadn’t been the person assigned to find the Ripper.. I probably wouldn’t have caught your attention, right?  Or.. Wrong?  Because I’m really not sure.. Feels like I can’t trust my own perceptions.”

 

…

 

“Jack sees the benefits, the results. Not the horrors.” The man just couldn’t imagine what it was like, to allow a killer inside your head, to read them so thoroughly that you felt yourself committing their crime. Hannibal had a good idea about the concept, yet he failed to see the terror. It was—Interesting and enlightening, or it was not.

The doctor shrugged lightly. He wasn’t so snobby as to be unable to deal with colder temperatures; they would live, even if it took a while for the house to grow warm.

Hannibal had been supposed to be his paddle, not one of the killers Will was paid to catch. However, the older man swiftly found that he didn’t share the other’s humor. Deranged. This wasn’t the word the man would ever use to describe himself. He wasn’t insane; he knew what he was doing. His kills were neither impulsive nor foolish. Not distasteful. He didn’t appreciate being on the same list as mad lunatics with foam in their mouths.

“Is that what I am?” A dark look settled on the man’s face; the only readable emotion being displeasure. “Yet I stand here, in your home, having been invited with open arms.” After Will had made certain that no one at the FBI would hear what they had to say, so no one would know.

_ What does that say about you? _

_ How does that make you feel? _

“If you didn’t work for Jack Crawford then he wouldn’t have introduced you to me,” Hannibal pointed out, disapproval shifting to aloofness, then to detachment. “That is all.” How else than like this would the other man have been able to catch his interest? One couldn’t be drawn to something, someone, if one didn’t know of their existence, after all.

 

…

 

“Hmm?” Will tilted his face up, looking at the dark expression on the other man’s face– and wondered, briefly, just how many people had seen in.. and not realized that their next words might well seal their untimely demise.  It wasn’t a reassuring thought..

But Will was almost surprised to note that he didn’t feel particularly afraid.

“No, you’re probably less insane than I am.”  He finally said, his tone mild and exhausted; conversational, almost.  As the stress of the last week slowly ground down on him, chipping away vital pieces of himself.  “At least you know what’s going on in your own head.”

His words trailed off, leaving only the tension of the silence behind.  It was the sort of quiet he could feel on his skin, and overfilling his lungs; pressing out from him as he tried to breathe in, “And I never said I didn't invite you.  Christ, Hannibal, I’ve been wanting to see you all week– and what does  _ that _ say about me?”

Like cracks in a dam, the pressure building behind his words, Will’s voice strained–  pushing himself to his feet to pace, restlessly, around the room, “You think I’ve forgotten that my house is in the middle of nowhere?  It’s like a bad horror movie– stuck out in the woods with a killer, where no one can hear you scream.’

“I’m supposed to be scared of you–right?  And I keep trying to be, because it feels like there’s something fundamentally wrong with my survival instinct, that I’m not.’

“I’m curious.  About the man behind this person suit you show everyone else.  And I don’t know if that means that I have to accept what you’ve done.  And will do again.  Or if I just have to turn a blind eye, and pretend that I don’t see the clues in your art–”

Will stopped, breath hitching as he twisted a wretched step, arms folded around himself tightly.  Reflexively he drummed his fingers against his arms as he looked down at the ground, unable to meet his gaze, “So I try to justify it.  You help catch killers, you help me profile them.. So does taking those people off the street balance out your crimes?…’

“If I thought you were deranged, I would have told someone.  For your own safety.  But I didn’t.”

 

…

 

Will wasn’t insane. The man was frightened and confused, at his own thoughts, his own insights, but he wasn’t mad. Often enough, he must know what was going on in his head, but didn’t want to accept it. And that truly wasn’t the same. Perhaps he was unstable at times, due to his lack of tolerance – the clash of what he felt and what he wanted to feel, because it would be the right thing.

The doctor did nothing to break the silence. It might be uncomfortable – not entirely so for him, he could easily endure the tension, as unwanted as it was – but Will had been the cause, so he would be the one to make it dissolve.

“You could have come to me whenever you have wished.” Hannibal’s expression softened just a tad, the man’s mood lightened up at least some at the other’s statement. “My door is as open for you as yours was for me, tonight.” Office hours were for patients, was what the man had told Will before, and he had meant it. If the other man had desired to have this conversation at an earlier time than he would merely have needed to say so.

It was slightly irritating, the implication that the doctor had followed Will home like one of those thriller-villains. This was no horror movie. “No,” the older man responded, the tone of his voice leaving no room for doubts. “I don’t want you to be afraid.” Society might tell him that it would be the most reasonable reaction; though Hannibal didn’t care about what someone was supposed to feel toward something.

Forcing a reaction because anything else would be frowned upon was quite pointless and unpleasant.

“You have seen quite a few glimpses.”

Will already knew him better than most of his acquaintances, after all.

“Why?” A curious, prying question. “Why didn’t you tell anyone? Because you have promised it to me?”

 

…

 

Is that what he had thought? For a stark moment, Will looked like the rug had jerked beneath his feet; like he wasn’t sure if he could stay upright, or if his body was simply waiting for gravity to take hold.  Swallowing hard, he shook his head, a few errant curls reflecting off his clammy forehead.

“No!   _ God _ … I didn’t tell them because I didn’t want them to know.  What sort of a creep do you take me for?  Just – it’s everything else that’s the problem!”  He sounded unsteady, fidgeting with the cuffs of his jacket, and dragging his hands hard through his hair, feeling the curls snap under his fingers.  “I don’t want to see you in jail, or worse.. But if I let you out, then you’re going to keep killing people!  And then what?’

“We wait for someone else, someone  _ better _ than me, who can trace the blood back to you?”  In his mind, the shapes of his own design were finally emerging from beneath the confusion; the other voices finally drowned out by his own presence in his head.

“You have to know that this isn’t sustainable– if I could figure out your messages, eventually someone else will, too.  And what are you going to do?  Best case scenario, you vanish; and I’m left to deal with the fallout.  Or they catch you… Or…”

Will sank down on the edge of the bed, dragging off his glasses, and tossing them onto the side table.  It creaked sharply under his weight, the old springs protesting, “How could I have gone to you, when I didn’t know what to say?  I told you I needed to think about this, and when you’re here, it seems almost easier!  And then you leave.. And I start doubting everything.”

 

…

 

Will was entirely aware of the fact that the murders wouldn’t stop, that the Ripper would continue to exist even though he had been found out. But what truly seemed to bother the man was that more crimes meant more evidence, and that sooner or later, someone would catch the doctor. It wouldn’t be Will himself who would bring him down; he was worried that someone else would achieve so.

The psychiatrist would leave no messages for someone else. He had grown smarter, more careful, than he had been as he was young. He had been found out before, even with the knowledge and experience he had, now; it wasn’t completely unlikely that it would happen again.

If it hadn’t been Will, then the doctor wouldn’t have hesitated to take action. However, it would have been all too inconvenient if this person would have spoken to Jack Crawford about their suspicions, before.

Miriam Lass had had no time for such a thing.

“If I were to disappear, I’d have no desire to leave you behind.” It was the most honest thing Hannibal could respond. Perhaps it would become necessary to flee, sometime. But it wouldn’t be ideal if he had to leave alone. The journey would be—lacking.

The older man moved, not assuming he was invited to sit with the other, but feeling free to use the chair near the bed, sitting just on the edge of it, forearms resting on his thighs as he leaned forward, closer to Will. “I want to steady you. Making rash decisions isn’t often the most clever choice, yet I believe you are less grounded when you are by yourself.”

 

…

 

He was only distantly aware of it, but as Hannibal sat down across from him, Will could feel the worst of the suffocating tension in his chest ease.  Like coming up for air after drowning, Will’s breath rasped audibly, his chest expanding too far as he tried to calm down.

Panicking wouldn’t help anything, he knew that.  Had been trained to keep a level head.  But facing down an armed killer wasn’t the same as sitting across from Hannibal Lecter; only a few spare feet of cold air between them.

“I feel more like myself when I’m with you.”  He murmured down at his hands, wringing his long, slender fingers until the knuckles gave with sharp pops, “Like you can drown out all the other voices and remnants that stick with me after I leave work… I guess..”

His smile was pained, a prickling in his chest mirrored in the back of his throat embarrassingly.

In the dark, he traced the line of Hannibal’s arms, his shape emphasized and made larger by the cut of his heavy jacket.  Like armour, his own coat feeling paper thin and inadequate, the chill in the house seeping through the material and into his bones.

“I can’t.. Shake the thought.  That we were friends– but, if I was wrong about everything else, then maybe I was wrong about that, too.  I understand why you couldn’t tell me…  I do.  But you know how those kind of thoughts are.  They wait until you’re alone, and tired, and telling yourself that it’s  _ fine _ , just isn’t enough.”

Because it hurt.  A constant stabbing behind his breastbone, scored across the meat of his heart.  

“It was getting hard enough to be around you, before all of this.  I don’t know how to do it now.”

 

…

 

Hannibal supposed that he could understand what the other was talking about. More often than not, the doctor was pouring on calm. His mind was quiet; the man was at ease with himself and his actions, and the other could feel that, couldn’t he. There was subtle – not seldom unconscious – manipulation wherever one looked. People projecting their wishes and desires and requests onto others. With his empathy, Will would mirror what he saw and sensed. Or at least that was how the psychiatrist imagined it.

With him, there was more peace. Manipulation only where it was wanted and planned, confidence and control even in this.

“And I can continue to do just that.” He wanted to. He was interested in what lay beneath the layers of other people’s thoughts, in who and what Will himself was. Perhaps it seemed as though Hannibal enjoyed making others do uncharacteristic things, manipulating them and tricking them into doing something they wouldn’t usually do, or want to do. But it was quite the opposite; the man was curious about someone’s true nature. All the little things they kept hidden, all the thoughts they didn’t dare to act upon.

“I am your friend,” Hannibal replied swiftly, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth because Will hadn’t been wrong; he had been right about so many things. “I’ll always be your friend.” And he had let the other man know now. He couldn’t have told him sooner, even if he had wanted to.

The psychiatrist didn’t truly understand what the other meant, saying that it had been getting difficult, anyway, to be around him, and he furrowed his brows the smallest tad at the statement. “You are doing it, quite admirably, right now,” Hannibal said as he shifted, arm stretching for him to rest his hand on the other’s knee, meaning it as a grounding gesture even if he couldn’t be certain it would be that. “You’re sitting with me, and nothing has changed.”

 

…

 

Will had always quietly believed that he was a weak man, buckling under the pressure of a ‘ _ gift’  _ that most people could have handled with grace.  Maybe even gratitude.  In his private thoughts, he considered that maybe  _ everyone _ saw the world in the way he did, and he was simply the odd man who couldn’t endure it.  Control it.  

Bend and shape it, until it no longer felt like living life through a field of shattered glass; light reflecting and blinding him, drawing blood with every step.

“If nothing had changed, then this wouldn’t be so hard.  I think we can safely say that things are definitely more complicated.”

And maybe then they could understand what it felt like to be with Hannibal.  Where everything seemed to slow, and quiet.  Where he could find Will Graham in the chaos of Hobbs and branching antlers, of mushrooms flourishing on dead skin, and Elliot Buddish’s guardian angels.  

Will, who had thoughts, and opinions of his own.  Who was confused and hurt, and still so much more than just a life support system for his imagination.

Slowly, he looked down at the hand resting on his knee.  The shape of Hannibal’s knobbly wrist bones as they peeked from beneath the cuff of his fine coat.  The long, gifted fingers that curled so familiarly against the worn, faded corduroy slacks he had worn that day.

“And.. You know, it’s not just the murders– if, you want me to be honest.”  Will exhaled a long, slow breath; feeling the tension in his chest winding tightly, jealously, around the air that remained in his lungs.  “It’s the rest of it, too.  And, weirdly.. That’s almost harder to think about.’

“Does that say something about how strange we are?  That it’s easier to talk about the fact that you  _ kill _ people recreationally.. Than it is that you… Might have– I guess, providing I haven’t fucked it up..  Have feelings for me that were more than platonic.”

With ginger care, Will brought his fingers up, resting them experimentally on the back of Hannibal’s knuckles.  It tingled up his arm, chasing away some of the cold; and making his mouth jump distractedly at the corners.  A rueful smile that vanished as quickly as it came.

“I sort of figured you for straight.  Thought you’d end up with some nice girl.. Because it was easier than admitting that.. Because you were my psychiatrist.  Unofficially.  And Abigail’s father.. Officially-Unofficial.’

“I guess willful denial seemed safer than futile hope.”   

 

…

 

Yes, they needed to talk about this, too. It shouldn’t be the more difficult, complicated topic, and Hannibal’s lips quirked slightly because they were strange, indeed, but that was just fine. They were the same sort of peculiar.

“I consider my feelings unchangeable.” The other man’s words implied that he would think it a loss if those feelings had lessened, because of something he did. Will had said before that he didn’t want them  _ because he was sure he would disappoint _ . However, it was not a possibility. And if the doctor was one thing then it was entirely certain of what was happening in his mind; he wouldn’t give a response like this if there were any doubts left. There was a smile in his eyes when the man added, “Not even your initial disdain managed to alleviate my interest.”

It had only made him all the more curious. Someone who hadn’t looked at him and was charmed by the lovely walls he had built around himself. Will hadn’t found him interesting – but had grown closer to him the more they spoke, naturally.

His gaze slipped down to their hands, breath held for a moment as the man stayed completely still, letting the other do as he wished without hindering him or pushing for more.

“You believed I was in love with Alana Bloom.” And maybe that had made sense, after all. Will hadn’t understood, even after having been told, that It had been him all along. He had thought the Ripper had fallen in love with a woman, and this thought had only appeared to grow stronger once he had known that the Ripper and the psychiatrist were the same thing.

“Your assumptions blinded you.” Willful denial indeed. Not seeing that it was true, even though it was right before his eyes. “You knew you were the only one who had found and read my message.”

In the end, they might have struggled with the same problem. Only that there was more to lose and gain, for Hannibal, then pride and hurt. “Safer, perhaps, but sometimes hope is not as futile as it might seem.” And so the message had been sent. So he had decided to let the other man know, because stagnation had never led anyone to their goal. And here they were, now.

“I would have told you sooner, if that had been an option.”

 

…

 

“I did think you were in love with her..”  Will confirmed, his pale blue eyes fixed on their hands.  Hannibal’s larger one, and his own skinny fingers laid quietly over the tiny, branching bones; he had the most beautiful hands Will had ever seen, and the image of them moving over the black and white keys still plucked at his heartstrings in unexpected ways.

“Empathy isn’t perfect.  It’s hard to tell the difference between loving someone, and being  _ in _ love with them.  Especially with you, because you just don’t project as much as most people do… It’s not a  _ bad _ thing, most of the time it makes you a relief to be around.. But sometimes it does make it a little harder to figure out what’s going through your mind.”

Or impossible.  That was also a distinct possibility.

Will still wasn’t sure if he wanted to talk about this.  He knew they needed to, but the concept loomed in the room like the proverbial white elephant.  Only, in their case, the white elephant was actually a fearsome, branching horror of shadows in the corner of the room.  Watching.  Always watching.

The pad of his thumb traced distractedly across Hannibal’s knuckles; back and forth in gentle, sweeping caresses.  And after a moment, the repetitive motion soothed some of his rattled anxiety.

“I don’t blame you for not telling me– I’m upset, yes.  Hurt.  But not angry.  But, as for the rest.. Part of me if afraid that– and this was even before I found out the truth– changing things between us won’t work.  That it’s going to somehow damage what we do have.’

“Not exactly a revolutionary problem, I know.  It’s just, we’ve been stuck between the informality of being friends, and the structure of therapy for months now.  Adding another dimension could be.. complicated.”

 

…

 

“A necessity,” Hannibal stated, matter-of-factly. If it were easy to read him, he wouldn’t sit here and enjoy his freedom, anymore. “But also something that comes naturally.” It’s not as though he would shut off what he otherwise would project; the man hid and built walls, yes, but his quiet and control required no effort to hold up.

Except when he was speaking to the other man, and Will implied that while he saw troubles, he was still considering.

The other’s touch was careful, tender, and after another moment the doctor shifted slightly and turned his hand, palm up. “You would not have reacted like this, if I had told you sooner.” A bad apology, if it could even be considered one. But the truth nevertheless. He would acknowledge that he had harmed Will with this, but it had been necessary all the same. Because the other male wouldn’t have been torn between alerting Jack and staying silent about it all, back then.

Will had had to see this side of him, before understanding the other.

“A concern that many seem to have, yes,” Hannibal agreed, though found that his pulse was quickening nearly unnoticeably, pale brows furrowing ever so slightly at the realization. He hadn’t truly planned ahead – he rarely did. Spontaneity was one of the man’s strengths. However, perhaps he was in fact at least a tad surprised at how and where this conversation was going, so easily, as though it was normalcy. Two friends who discussed growing emotions.

As though the horror didn’t even exist.

“What about the other part? The one that isn’t frightened?” Hopeful curiosity softened his tone a little. “I am not as doubtful as you are.” If he was honest then Hannibal had no doubts at all; having reached a point of acceptance and tolerance and fondness, there should be nothing that couldn’t be solved, one way or another.

 

…

 

“Sometimes it feels like fear is my life.  It just spills over into everything… The confusing part of this was trying to figure out what exactly I was afraid of.  A lot of..conflicting.. emotions to sort through.”

The heater in the fireplace spluttered and wheezed anemic air, threatening to plunge them both into the cold.  And vaguely, Will knew that he should go collect some wood for the hearth, before both of them had to suffer through having an uncomfortable conversation in even less pleasant settings…

But then Hannibal turned his hand, and Will could feel the warmth that pooled in the tiny hollow between their palms.  For an instant Will’s fingers jumped away, reflexively darting back from the unexpected shift.  Tingling electricity poured through his nerves, bringing goosebumps out on his skin beneath his coat, and stirring the butterflies in his stomach.

And he realized that the cold was  small price to pay for not moving.

Not from here.  Not now.  Not  _ yet _ .

Will could feel Hannibal’s gaze on him, a few errant curls falling across his forehead as he looked at their hands.  Following the lines of their skin until they blurred in the shadows.  

“The rest of me..”  He murmured finally, the quiet words coloured with a heavy sigh, “Doesn’t think this feels wrong.  Hasn’t.. for a while.  I’m not sure how long.  I’ve tried not to think about it.”

Their joined hands chased away some of the deja vu, the feeling that they were sitting across Hannibal’s office.  No longer divided by a brocaded carpet.  “How do you see this working?  If we tell anyone– not about the.. other stuff.. But they’d have me set to a different therapist.  And Hannibal..”

Will’s voice caught, and he stifled a cough in the crook of his arm, fingers unconsciously tightening on the other man’s hand.  “I don’t want anyone else in my head.  And I can’t even start picturing how I could fit, even a little bit, into your life..’

“I mean, it doesn’t exactly work if I only see you at 7:30 on Thursdays.”


	10. Cadence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is the first notes of acceptance.

_**Cadence: A sequence of chords that brings an end to a phrase, either in the middle or the end of a composition.** _

 

He didn’t want to be careful, as though he was approaching a frightened, hurt animal. There was confusion and excitement and worry, but Hannibal didn’t pull away, no sign of received dismissal, when the other man’s hand retreated with a start, only for a moment. He had made it somewhat of a habit, fleetingly touching the other, squeezing his shoulder when they stood close, but there had never been reciprocity. It had never been something both had been so intensely focused on. His lips tilted into a light smile.

“I’ve thought about it rather much,” the doctor nearly quipped, perhaps admitting a little too much but hardly caring. It was all out on the table now, anyway. It didn’t truly matter how long he had felt the same, if he had been surprised, as confused as the other, if he had attempted to fight it. They were here.

There was a pleasant swell of warmth within him, at that.

His expression darkened for but a second, though it wasn’t directed at Will. “I do not wish for you to be referred to anyone else, either.” He disliked the thought, very much so. And not because he believed that a colleague could make Will talk about the Ripper; no, he found that he was quite—possessive, of the other and of his brilliant mind. They wouldn’t understand Will.

“It might be best to not tell.”

Which might make this seem like a nasty little secret, even though it was anything but. Hannibal wouldn’t want to hide this, if it weren’t for that reason. It wasn’t the most pleasant choice, but anything else would lead to consequences neither of them would be happy to face.

“The sessions we shall keep as they are, I would suggest.” The man was positively shining the very moment the topic was changed slightly. “But it should not be much of a problem, to make time outside of them.”

Contrary to the other man, Hannibal could easily see how Will would fit into his life.

 

…

 

On the day they met, Hannibal had told him that there were no walls in his mind; to keep out, or protect, the people he loved.  

Months later, Will had apologized for dragging the good doctor in his broken world.  Hannibal had simply told him that he had found his way there on his own..

But he’d been grateful for the company. 

And they had hovered in the strange no-man’s land between professional, and friends. Until it had taken only Hannibal’s hand turning under his own– resting palm to palm on Will’s knee– that divided friendship from something  _ new _ .  And it was terrifying and exhilarating, as new things often are.

“You’re probably right… But if we’re keeping this secret, then I want you to promise me something.”

Will, who hated eye contact; the distraction of it, the intimacy in that intangible touch; looked up at Hannibal over the top of his glasses.  Blue eyes seeking out maroon in the darkness.  

His hands were cold as he folded Hannibal’s slowly between his own, the cuff of his threadbare plaid meeting the other man’s fine dark wool.  

“No more messages.  No more bodies fashioned into love letters.  There’s too much of you in those; they’re as distinctive as a signature.  And I can’t stand the idea of a message to me, being the thing that gets you caught.”

 

…

 

Hannibal had never officially been the other man’s therapist; nonetheless it couldn’t be denied that their conversation had often been professional. They had spoken about cases, about Will’s mind, about the doctor’s insight, skimming through FBI files. While more personal things had also been mentioned, offered, their relationship had all in all been set in a work environment.

Regardless, to Hannibal, the other was much more friend than patient.

The doctor pondered over the request for a moment, a thoughtful expression settled on his face as he glanced into another corner of the house. Will didn’t ask this of him because he wanted to stop Hannibal from being what he was; he was asking because he was worried the older male might be found out. And while the man himself was too sure of his actions to be concerned, he found that he could accept this. Because it was care instead of horror and command.

Returning Will’s gaze, he lifted their hands.

“I promise,” came the response, speaking mouth brushing across the other’s knuckles.

“However, may I suggest something?” The psychiatrist didn’t wait for Will to say either yes or no; the offer would be made, and then the other man could voice his opinion on it. “I would like to take one issue away from you, at least. It might prove beneficial to remove this novelty from your workaday world, and find a place for this in our lives without the added trouble of cases and sessions.”

 

…

 

It was a little like stepping off the edge of cliff, Will considered in the back of his mind.  You edge closer, and closer, and your heart is racing; and there’s this moment when you can look down, and see the fall, and how  _ far _ it is, and your instincts scream at you to run back to safety.

And then, he smiled offhandedly, barely a quirk of his lips– then that  _ high place phenomena –  _ kicks in, and in an instant, all you want is to step over the edge, and find out what happens.

As Hannibal brought his hand to his mouth, Will could feel the faint puff of his warm breath for an instant.  And something in his chest lurched hard at the confirmation that this was real.

“Mmhmm.. Suggest away.”  Will nodded, canting his curly head to the side as he gave the doctor his full attention.  “I guess that depends on which novel issue you’re referring to.. I mean, it’s not like I don’t have a regular bucket list of nasty things to contend with.”  He replied wryly after a moment, curiously dabbing the pad of his thumb against the doctor’s generous mouth for a moment.

“How do you see it helping?”

 

…

 

Perhaps, for the doctor, it was as though he had reached that point much sooner. And he couldn’t tell when, exactly. There had been a hint of it, maybe, right from the start. And he had known, vaguely, that he couldn’t truly step back from this very edge again when he had seen that Will was still alive, after he had killed Tobias Budge. When he had thought, just for a moment, that he had made a mistake. That Will had died, and that the teacup he didn’t know he held dear was broken.

Hannibal smiled contentedly against the finger that pressed against his lip. “You have mentioned your concern regarding the more professional relationship we have shared, up until this point,” the older male reminded him, “And the way you may fit into my life.”

More importantly, Will had voiced worry about this not working out at all, no matter the reason. Concern that he would disappoint, that something would happen that would draw them apart. And the doctor supposed that a certain comfort, something that exceeded the familiar ambience of their sessions, could be very helpful indeed.

He would hate for Jack Crawford to hinder them from finding time to do just that, to exhaust Will to a point of his mind being void.

“I believe that perhaps, time spent more privately might eliminate those worries, at least partly. To put distance between the familiar and the new, and not feel as though we are in the middle of a therapy session with each other, in my office. Sometimes it is indeed helpful to start something at a place that does not bear any memories, if only for a little while.”

 

…

 

“Just… find somewhere else?  We always meet at your office..”  Will slowly turned the suggestion over in his mind; tracing the simple shape of it, the sheer accessibility _. _

The chance to figure this out, without feeling the weight of Hannibal’s professional life looming over them.  Trapping them outside of themselves, crushed into molds that no longer fit them.  Forms that, if he were being honest, had never been quite right.

Reaching up, Will slid his glasses from his nose, letting the dark frames dangle loosely from his fingers.  And slowly, through the gloomy darkness in the room, Will’s pale blue eyes drew up over Hannibal’s face; mapping over broad shoulders and sharp cheekbones, until he met the other man’s gaze.  

“You know… I think that’s a perfect solution.  Because I’m not interested in seeing my therapist– however unofficial.”

He was exhausted, the last week of strain folded around him like the unkind arms of a straight jacket.  Reaching over, Will set down his glasses on the wobbly table at the bedside; before fishing his phone from the pocket of his coat.  For an instant, the screen flashed bright, and he squinted in the sudden light.

“But we aren’t at your office now.”

And with that, Will held up his phone, decisively pressing the power button.  As the screen flickered, and plunged into still darkness, he felt something snap; releasing; in his chest.  

“You don’t need to leave messages anymore, Hannibal.  I want to listen–”  He paused, the corners of his mouth slowly edging upwards.  “You have my full attention.”

 

…

 

“Yes, we did.” They hadn’t had a single offical therapy session, but so far, they had more often than not met at Hannibal’s office. Or, whenever the other man had agreed to it, at the doctor’s house. However, while neither of them had really minded this before – regardless of the fact that they didn’t truly had therapy sessions with each other, despite of the premises – it was something that might lead to—inadequacy, in the future. Something they were growing out of; something that didn’t fit them any longer.

It was always a little exceptional, still, when the other man allowed their eyes to lock. At times, Will was seeking eye contact himself, and the psychiatrist couldn’t help but

“And I should not be seeing one of my patients, either,” Hannibal agreed, even if he had never truly seen Will as that.

His gaze was full of pleased pride as the doctor watched the other taking his phone, shutting off the device as though it didn’t matter right now, as though nothing else mattered. Not Jack and the FBI, not the case, not Hannibal’s job. Not his tableaus. For a moment, he could pretend that it wouldn’t become important. That it wouldn’t just be a matter of time.

“I wanted you to listen.” A new, peculiar urge. He reached up, slightly cautiously, knuckles brushing across a sharp jaw before the man moved to lightly press his thumb to the other’s bottom lip, returning the touch that had been given to him but a moment before. “I wanted you to see. And you are unique in your understanding. It drew me in rather insistently.”

 

…

 

Will was a man who lived alone.  Who worked in the isolating loneliness of his own mind, populated by the dusty ghosts of the people he profiled. Locked in the slowly evolving, maturing corridors of his own grey, barren mind palace.  It was the life he had made his peace with.

“I should be grabbing some firewood before we both freeze in here.  That would kind of render the whole thing a moot point if we turn into icicles.”

And then there was Hannibal (no longer Dr. Lecter in his mind, though Will wasn’t sure when that had changed) reaching through the clammy gloom; with a caressing touch that sent tingling shocks of electricity through his nerves, and joined him on the dark side of the veil.

As Hannibal’s warm fingers traced across his prickly, stubbled skin, Will’s breath escaped in a sharp, forced exhale.  He could feel his skin heating beneath the touch, as scratchy stubble gave way to his parted lips, his breath drawing up too quick.

Unconscious he turned his cheek into the offered touch, his gaze breaking away as his pale blue eyes slid half closed.  “Whatever the reason, I think I should just be grateful for it… You, er, being drawn in, I mean.”  He corrected himself, pulling away with a small, nervous chuckle.

“Look…”  Slowly, Will pulled away; reluctantly lingering until the heat from Hannibal’s fingers had faded from his skin, “Just… Give me a second to grab some of the firewood.  It’s sort of a lot to take in.  And it’s getting cold enough that I can see your breath.”

Whatever this was, or would be, Will wasn't entirely sure.  But it was a start.. And he supposed that would have to be good enough.


End file.
